


31 Days of Apex Challenge

by ElliottWitt



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: 31 Days of Apex (Apex Legends), Alcohol, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dementia, F/F, F/M, Family, Family Loss, First Kiss, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, M/M, Memories, Romance, Slow Burn, Witt Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25007278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElliottWitt/pseuds/ElliottWitt
Summary: Mini-fic and drabbles as part of the #31DaysOfApex challenge over on @31ApexDays on Twitter!(DAY 1 - MEMORY)  - Elliott finds himself unprepared when faced with having to speak to the press about memories of his family.**(DAY 3 + 7  -MERCY // HEALING ) Gibraltar’s poicy of no killing has taken the interest of more people than just Elliott.**(DAY 12 - RUINS) The ruins of King Canyon hold special meaning to those who grew up among them.**(DAY 22 - DREAMS) What do you do, then, when you achieve your dreams, and yet you're still unhappy?**(DAY 17 + 20 - HOME // FAMILY) In the aftermath of everything that has happened, the Legends are forced to consider what family even means anymore.**(DAY 30 // TRUST) Elliott decides to finally let Gibraltar in on the man behind Mirage.
Relationships: Lifeline | Ajay Che & Octane | Octavio Silva, Makoa Gibraltar/Mirage | Elliott Witt
Comments: 24
Kudos: 66





	1. MEMORY

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! My writing skills are incredibly rusty, but I'll be doing my best to participate in the [#31DaysOfApex challenge over on Twitter!](https://twitter.com/31ApexDays) Will most definitely not be able to participate every single day, but I'll try tackle as many prompts as possible with drabbles. Gonna try make them not all Mirage, Gibraltar, and/or Miraltar related but no promises lol. 
> 
> This 'drabble' kind of got away from me, as you can tell from the Word Count, whoops.
> 
> Content warning that a character in this has dementia, and I hope I've portrayed it respectfully as possible, and is based a lot on my own experiences of people I care about who suffer from it. <3
> 
> The book quotes comes from the novel 'Watership Down' by Richard Adams.
> 
> Regarding the song 'The Inch Worm', Manny Hagopian tweeted a while ago that "Mirage plays piano but only one song. It’s a song taught to him by his mother when he was little. They used to play and sing it together, though it’s a bit harder nowadays. He still plays it for her to help her sleep. The song’s called 'The Inch Worm' written by Frank Loesser."
> 
> I listened to [this incredible cover of the song The Inch Worm by Frank Loesser](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m-ER1XzdjaY) a lot, especially whislt writing the last third of this, if anyone else wants to check out heavypiano's work! STRONG RECOMMEND!

The press, the endless interviews that followed a Season -- hell, even a single _Game_ \-- was just part of the package of being a Legend. It was one of the few areas of their strange status that Elliott exceeded at. He knew exactly how to make the journalists laugh, when words failed him -- as they so often did -- he could usually make up for it with a charming smile and self-deprecating joke. The crowd would laugh, some of his fellow Legends would chuckle, some would roll their eyes, but all in all, entertaining a crowd was what he was _renowned_ for. And so, he did it extremely well.

But no one is infallible, least of all Elliott. 

He’d learnt to dodge the obvious questions, derail them with some unrelated tangent or extravagant display that made people forget the subject altogether. Questions surrounding his family, his background, and most of all: his mother, Evelyn Witt.

(Later, he’ll wonder if perhaps the more talented journalists had noticed his tactics, and altered their own in order to try and coerce a semblance of truth from him.)

He should have figured as much, when he signalled to answer a question from someone like Angela Fazia. Such an incredibly _stupid_ idea, in retrospect, but he’d been still running on that high following a win, thought he was damn near _invincible._

“Mister Witt -- oh, _excuse_ me -- _Mirage_.”

Chuckles all round from her fellow colleagues. That alone had set an uneasy stirring in Ellliott’s gut.

“I apologise for such a -- well, for lack of a better word, a ‘fluff piece’ question, but you know just how much your fanbase reveres you and enjoys this kind of insight -- but _if_ I may -- what would you say is your happiest memory?”

Such an innocent question, but he feels the colour drain from his face all the same as he struggles to maintain his smile.

 _Breathe_ , he tells himself, _breathe_.

But the memories sweep him away all the same. And at a certain point, there is nothing you can do but simply let yourself be carried away by the current.

** 

It’s a simple answer, really. But not one he would choose to share with the world.

Simple, but the one he clung to above all others during the countless nights he lay awake in his apartment, alone, staring at the ceiling.

His family. The last time they had been altogether.

Or, at least; the last times all his brothers had come home before they never came back.

**

It is six years ago, and Elliott is shrugging off his jacket, grumbling to himself about that customer at the bar that just wouldn’t _fucking_ leave. He is stomping the sand from his boots on the steps to their relatively small home, muttering under his breath as he bends over and undoes the thick laces, knowing Evelyn Witt would give him more than an earful if he dragged sand into the house on _top_ of being late for dinner.

It’s in that moment that he catches the aroma carrying through from the kitchen, and hesitates. 

Pork chops. _Huh_. She rarely took the time to make their trademark family dish these days, unless it was a special occasion. Since all his brothers had left, she was more typically found toiling late into the evening in her workshop.

In his usual autopilot routine of arriving back home, he realises that he had failed to notice the multiple pairs of dirty boots kicked into the corner beside the welcome mat, or the extra jackets haphazardly tossed on top of the coat hanger. Elliott straightens up slowly, as if in a trance, reaching out and gently turning over a lapel to reveal the stitched name tag ‘WITT’ across the front. Which could have belonged to any one of them, but he recognises it as Roger's from the scent alone. He exhales sharply, stepping back and taking a moment to actually _count_ the number of discarded shoes, jackets, wondering, desperately trying to stop himself from hoping that --

“Elliott?”

His mother’s voice rings out from the kitchen, and her cadence is more than enough confirmation. He stumbles in his frantic kicking off the rest of his boot, excitement, anticipation and for some strange reason, even _fear_ sending electric currents rushing down his spine as he hastily heads towards the kitchen. The closer he gets towards the slightly-ajar door, the louder the once-familiar din coming from behind it sounds, that he finds himself hesitating -- just for a moment -- as he lays his palm against the sanded wood.

Just for a moment. Just long enough to take a deep breath, to close his eyes. To pray that once he pushes it open, it didn’t mean this was some kind of peculiar dream or hallucination or --

He opens the door.

It was rare all three of his brothers managed to get shore leave at the same time. So rare, in fact, that Elliott was pretty sure it had only ever occurred twice since they’d all enlisted, once for a holiday and the other on the anniversary of Dad --

But there they were. Elon, leaning back in his chair with his usual lazy smirk, hands clasped behind his head. He had always been the best of them at managing to take up the most space in an already crowded household. When Elliott had been younger, Elon had been the one who usually went out of his way to make his life as difficult as possible, between his taunts about his stammer, from his repeated teasing of ‘ _lil_ _Elli, the mama’s boy_ ’, but such resentments tended to fall away when war tore your family asunder, ripped away your friends, left you wondering whether every time you said goodbye, would it be the last time you see them again. Ricky and Roger sat beside one another, flashing identical smiles although the twins had taken steps to diversify their appearance from one another since the last time Elliott saw them; Ricky had shaved his head and Roger had grown one hell of a beard, but --

Here they are. Every single one of them, around one table, and of course, there, behind them all, smiling with a radiance the sun could never dare to rival:

Evelyn Witt, leaning against the sink, face flushed whether from the joy of all her sons in one room altogether, or the exertion of cooking for so many all at once, or any number of things -- 

It’s that smile, Elliott remembers. 

It’s that glow, the soft sheen on her face lit up all the more by Solace’s sunset behind the window, it’s --

It’s the look she gives him then, her blue eyes meeting Elliott’s with a warmth that takes his breath away.

Like the ones she used to give him when he was a kid, curled into a ball with his comforter as protection, when the sounds of war and gunfire and Titans falling could be heard from even within the protective walls of Solace City, and she would sit at his bedside, holding his hand and whispering over and over:

 _“Everything will be alright_.”

**

It is six years later, and he is no longer Elliott Witt, part-time bartender, part-time engineer, he is Mirage, one of the acclaimed Apex Legends. And he is frozen on-stage at a press conference, over a relatively innocuous question by Anglela Fazia. Several dozen pairs of eyes are trained upon him, and he is dimly aware that the crowd is beginning to mutter. But he can’t -- he can’t _do_ anything.

Ajay stands up suddenly, lets out an exaggerated yawn before grimacing.

“All well an’ good for _you_ people out there, but _we_ were just out there getting shot at, _if_ ya didn’t notice. Don’t know ‘bout the rest of ya, but _I’m_ getting tired.”

Makoa follows almost immediately, creaking his neck and shooting the audience an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, but think that’s it for me today too, brothers. That ring _hurts_ , yanno?”

Both he and Ajay begin to walk offstage, as the other Legends begin to gather their things, no one appearing particularly upset at the sudden end of the press conference. Except, perhaps, Octavio, who seems to be complaining about the incredible stunt he had planned but Ajay has him by the arm and dragging offstage before he can get much more than a word in. 

Elliott begins to get his own stuff in order, trying his utmost to look composed. The anxiety that he was doing an absolute _appalling_ job of such a simple task was only fanning the flames.

Until -- 

A large hand claps his shoulder, squeezes it gently. He casts a panicked glance over his shoulder, only to be shocked by the sight of Makoa Gibraltar smiling reassuringly down at him.

“S’okay, brother,” he murmurs in a hushed tone, just low enough to make sure the microphones don’t catch it. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wanting to keep certain memories to yourself.”

He holds his gaze just a moment longer, before releasing his grasp on Elliott’s shoulder and rejoining the rest of the Legends wandering offstage. Elliott can’t help but stare at his retreating form -- before remembering where he was, what he was supposed to be doing, and hustling to keep up with the departing crowd.

God only knew what they’d report tomorrow. But he tries to keep Makoa’s words at the forefront of his mind as he makes his way home, ignoring the various messaging alerts and phone calls that plagued his phone the entire journey and keeping his focus on the road ahead.

**

He lets himself in, that very same front door. It’s a considerably emptier space now -- several pairs of Elliott’s work boots, and then just a pair of woman's pumps. Two jackets on the coat rack, when once it used to be a struggle to locate space for even one. 

“Elliott?”

He sighs when he recognises the voice, and begins to shrug off his overcoat.

“Mr. Witt? Is that you?” Christian, Evelyn’s carer calls again.

“Yeah,” he replies as he makes his way towards the living room, suddenly all too aware how sore his muscles are from the day’s exertion. “It’s me. How is she?”

Christian glances out from behind the door, steps gently forward and closes it behind him.

“Doing okay, all things considered. I...wasn’t sure whether she should watch the game or not. So I just...didn’t tell her. I hope that’s okay?” He shuffles his feet awkwardly. “Tell the truth, I wasn’t expecting you home this early. You usually…”

“Yeah,” Elliott bites his lip. “I usually. Look, thanks for everything, Christian, but why don’t you take off? I can handle things from here.”

The carer looks genuinely surprised. 

“Are you sure, Mr. Witt? I mean -- we didn’t _watch_ , but I _heard_ , you know, that you won and all --”

“I’m sure,” Elliott replies, a little too abruptly. _Damnit, Elliott._ “I mean… No, thanks. It’s fine. I’d like to spend some time with her tonight, is all.”

Christian’s face softens.

“I understand completely. She’s in there. I was just reading to her. Watership Down. She seems to like it.”

**

_It is twenty-three years ago, and Elliott is seven years old, curled up in a pile of blankets beside his mother as she reads to him._

“When they catch you _,” Evelyn recites to him, leaning in close to his ear. “_ They will kill you _.” When Elliott seizes up in terror, clutching his blankets around him, she laughs softly, brushing the hair from his forehead and kissing it gently. “_ But first! They must _find_ you _.”_

_“Like the stuff you make, Mom? The invisible Pilot stuff?” he asks her, his gaze seeking._

_“Just like that, Elli.” She hefts the book up again, still stroking his hair. “_ Be cunning, and full of tricks, and your people will never be destroyed _.”_

 _Elliott thinks of the noise of war that raged outside the city’s walls, and for just a moment -- perhaps the first moment in his entire life -- he feels_ invigorated _rather than afraid._

_“Can you teach me what you do?”_

_Evelyn looks genuinely surprised, keeping Elliott tucked close against her but studying him with a bemused look all the same._

_“I -- of course! I would -- are you_ sure _, Elli? You might find it awfully boring but --”_

_“Yes!” he exclaims, tossing off his pile of blankets and throwing his arms around her. “I want -- I wanna -- I wanna learn how to keep other people safe too! I don’t -- I don’t want anyone to be hurt anymore!”_

_She sets the book down on the bed, and pulls him in close in an embrace. He is only seven, and cannot yet truly grasp the extent of the things he is feeling, but Elliott knows that he is loved, he is protected, he is_ wanted.

 _“Then I will teach you. And they_ won’t _c_ _atch you.”_

**

“Uhm. Mister Witt?”

It is twenty-three years later, and Christian is looking at him with mounting concern. Elliott blinks back to reality with a jolt.

“I -- uh -- yeah! No, no, it’s fine. Just -- just head on, Chris, I wanna -- I wanna see her.”

Christian does not look entirely convinced, but he plucks the money from Elliott’s hand regardless.

“Same time tomorrow?”

“Uh. Yeah --- yeah. That would be great. Thanks again, Christian.”

The carer nods, moves to take his own coat from the rail and hastily leaves. Elliott finds himself alone in the hallway, breathing heavily, trying not to look back at the simple entry hall that had once been so full of life, but now practically radiated emptiness.

“Who’s there?”

He closes his eyes, and swallows. How he’s come to hate this question.

“It’s me, Mom. It's Elliott.”

“Elliott..?”

He pushes open the door, making sure his smile is fixed in place.

Six years, but so much has changed. There’s more silver in her hair these days than blonde, and she was smaller, thinner now too: muscles earned by countless hours spent lugging machinery about her workshop slowly wasting away. She was sitting in her chair, idly leafing through the book Christian had left with her and staring at him with a confused look that never stopped hurting, no matter how familiar it was becoming.

“Yeah. Elliott. Your son.”

Her face lights up with a smile as realisation dawns, and Elliott feels the tightness knotted somewhere in his chest ease ever so slightly. The sunset spills through the blinds, just like it had that day all those years ago, casting strange shadows that, for the briefest of moments, it is like she is painted gold.

So much has changed, but she still remains the most radiant thing in the room to him.

“Elli? What are you doing home from school so early?” She frowns, just the barest crease of her brow. “You aren’t in trouble again, are you?”

There it is again, that twist in his gut that he never could quite get used to.

 _No, mom_ he wishes he could say, _no, I did not because I’m a thirty-year-old man. Who owns his own business now, I’m even famous across the whole damn universe. They call me a Legend, because I fight in a bloodsport, using our own technology, the one we built_ together. _The one_ you _gave me, and told me to follow my dreams. And I won,_ today _, Mom. And I wish I could tell you all this, and not confuse or upset you, and I wish we could just celebrate together like we used to._

_I wish… I could just tell you how it’s all thanks to you and all you did for me. Do for me._

_I wish things could go back to the way they were._

But, of course, he does not say such things. Can’t say such things. 

Instead, he makes his way over to her and lays a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He’d like to pull her in for a hug, but he doesn’t want to disorient her too much about exactly ‘when’ this was.

“Naw, not in any trouble, don’t worry. Hey, I’d even go so far as to say I -- I made ya proud!”

She reaches up, lays her hand over where his rests and smiles gently.

“You always make me proud, Elli.”

He curses as he feels the prickling sensation in his eyes that portends tears falling, clenches his jaw and stubbornly swallows the feeling away. He can’t allow himself to fall apart around her.

He can’t. 

“You want me to read to you some more, mom?” 

She blinks, glancing at the book in her lap, looking perplexed all of a sudden once more.

“Oh...yes, that’s what I was doing before you got home, wasn’t I? My memory these days,” she says with a rueful laugh, “forget my head if it weren’t screwed on. Damn those doctors -- they should let me get back to work; the brain’s like a neglected piece of equipment, you know, just goes to rust if you don’t keep it well-oiled.”

This again. Elliott sighs, not wishing to have this argument for the thousandth time, and thus casting his gaze about the room for some way to divert her train of thought.

“You know what they told you: it’s just too dangerous right now. We’ll keep looking though -- bound to be some doctor out there that can help you. Say,” he slaps the top of their piano with a grin. “How ‘bout I treat you to an _exclusive_ im-- imp-- uh. _Improv_ performance! A treat for my number one fan?”

Distraction has always been one of his stronger skills, and he’s rewarded with a genuine laugh, His own smile no longer feels so forced when he hears that and he sits himself down at the piano bench.

“Oh, please,” she chuckles, and his eyes widen with surprise when she stands up suddenly. She moves towards the piano, and he sidles over to make room so that she too can slip down into the seat beside him. “Do you still remember that song I taught you?”

He’s briefly stunned -- Evelyn’s moments of pure clarity weren’t exactly unheard of, but he’d learned to temper his expectations. 

“Well? Do you?”

She smiles at him warmly as she rests her hands over the piano keys. Elliott’s fingers settle next to her’s, wearing a matching smile. A Witt family smile.

“The Inch Worm? Yeah, I think I can just 'bout manage that. Maybe with a little help from you.”

Music fills the otherwise empty home as the sun slips behind the horizon of Solace City. 

He doesn’t even think about the trophy nestled in the bag that he’d left hanging on the coat rack.

Instances like this are more priceless than any reward he could dream of.

What year it is no longer matters.

Some moments are simply timeless.


	2. MERCY // HEALING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elliott reflects on how he has come to understand mercy. Watching Makoa GIbraltar has taught him a lot.
> 
> He realises eventually, that he is not the only person watching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS LATE, but sliding in with the rules because I realised it fit with today's prompt, 'healing', too!
> 
> Thank you SO much Halo for proofing this! I really wanted to get this out on time, but personal circumstance didn't allow!
> 
> Book quotatons Ell mutters is good old Lord Of The Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien.
> 
> (Pssst... I'm hoping to write not just Mirage and Gibraltar and fit other characters and their own relationships for the challenge! There is 100% one-sided Gibto in this but this will defo end up Miraltar, so forewarning <3!!!)

**(3. M E R C Y + H E A L I N G)**

Makoa Gibraltar had been a source of not only admiration, but intrigue, long before Elliott Witt had even entered the games. 

Back when he’d been helping make ends meet by tending bar on Solace, and the first whisper of the ‘ _Apex Games_ ’ had begun sweeping across the city, Elliott’s interest had piqued. Gibraltar was from Solace himself, a member of SARAS as _well_ as an Apex Legend. The bar was always packed any night that a Game was airing, but _especially_ whenever Makoa Gibraltar competed. Elliott had always thought he might’ve picked a more creative name for his persona, like the others who had thus far achieved Legend status, but -- 

Maybe Makoa Gibraltar simply didn’t _need_ to hide behind one.

What had always stood out as particularly strange, however, was the very fact that given it was a bloodsport and all… Makoa Gibraltar had risen to Legend status early on, despite never actually _killing_ anyone.

He’d mentioned it one time to an older patron slumped over the bar, as he himself cleaned glasses and watched the Games on the holographic screen.

“Bit strange, right?” Elliott was ninety-nine percent sure that the person he was addressing, was in fact, passed out drunk, which gave him the confidence to continue. “Just.. Joins a bloodsport, but doesn’t kill? I mean, if it were _me_ \--”

“If it were _you_ \--”

Elliott startled back from the bar slightly, as the old coot suddenly rose up in his bar stool, as if to attention.

“-’twere _you_ ,” the man spluttered, clearly drunk but not enough so that he hadn’t heard Elliott’s ramblings. “You ever taken a man’s life before, boy?”

He swallowed, trying to put on his best ‘the bartender that always listens to your inane ramblings’ face; he _really_ needed this job.

“N -- no! I… I’m not a so-- I have, uhm…”

Fuck he didn’t want to go down this path. 

Fortunately, his inebriated new bar buddy had spared him.

“You take a life, boy,” he had snarled, leaning over the bar. Elliott could still recall the harsh stench of whiskey that clung to his breath. “I promise you. Each one. You see that last look in their eyes, and you can _see_ them ask you _‘why?’”_

The geezer had collapsed back into his drink then, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as he began to weep.

Elliott hadn’t really known what to do. All he could think was to pour the guy another shot of whiskey and leave him with his memories.

Odd, that.

He hadn’t really thought about that moment until almost a full year later. 

After that, it was a memory he found himself returning to more and more. 

And always when with Gibraltar.

**  
  


The first time it happened had been not too long after King’s Canyon had been destroyed, forcing the Games to move to World’s Edge instead.

Elliott had not been the only one taken aback by Makoa’s code of ethics. He’d witnessed that paranoid new kid, Crypto, scrutinising him with a frown when he thought no one was watching, be it ‘round the HQ or on the dropship. Like the big guy was one of his fancy algorithms, the kinds he had to crack the code in order to decipher him or -- whatever. Elliott was an engineer, not a...mathematician or whatever kind of weird geek Crypto was behind his ‘ _mysterious_ ’ persona. 

But it had taken up until the first time the hacker had been paired with Gibraltar for any real cracks to show.

Elliott had been entertaining Makoa and Ajay in his dorm room -- or at least, had been _trying_ to. Wraith kept calling out where he was keeping the cards for his variety of his magic tricks, which was _totally_ unfair, using those voices of hers’ to ruin his usually _amazing_ show -- when the dropship’s lights began to flash red, all the competitors’ heads instinctively snapping towards the screens that assigned each day’s team. He’d groaned upon spotting Crypto’s face plastered beside his, but at least Gibraltar was paired with them too. He liked Makoa: he’d a strange way of making Elliott feel like less of an idiot -- whenever he laughed, he seemed to be laughing along _with_ him. Not _at_ him. 

Unlike a certain new kid who would not be named.

Everyone immediately hopped into action, dropping whatever they were doing in practical synch, stepping forwards and lining up at the launch stations. Elliott had been just opening his mouth to wipe away that distasteful look he could see simmering on Crypto’s face, but Gibraltar interrupted before he got the chance, slapping the two of them on the back simultaneously with a broad grin.

“Donchu’ worry, brothers. Gibraltar’s got ya backs.”

The drop ship _jolted_ as the hatches below them opened, lowering the trio into the icy winds and snow that seemed to constantly storm over World’s Edge. 

Crypto shouted something, but whatever it was, it was lost to the roaring gale of the blizzard.

Elliott closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and thought of his mother’s face. Back home. Wondering if she was watching. If she even recognised him.

_I’ll make you proud, anyway, Mom. Even if you don’t remember._

And then he jumped.

**

An hour into the match, and Elliott wasn’t doing too bad a job of exactly that. 

He was covered in blood and muddy sleet, panting heavily as his foe finally fell unconscious. He hadn’t killed them, but they were gonna require some serious patching up once the med ships arrived. One remained, but Crypto had managed to knock them to their knees, leaving them to his mercy -- or rather, lack of it.

Elliott watched as Crypto pressed a pistol against an opponent’s forehead, snarling some kind of parting curse in his native language just before he sent them to the grave -- only to be yanked away _hard_ by Makoa, causing him to stumble several steps backwards in surprise.

Makoa had taken advantage of the opening Crypto left him, rushing in and knocking the enemy out cold with a clean blow against their temple with the terrifying looking hook-like club that he carried with him. Gibraltar chuckled, that deep, hearty laugh of his that somehow managed to make even a battlefield feel a little bit warmer, before dusting off his hands and turning over the unconscious body to see what they were carrying.

Crypto, having recovered from his forceful misstep, scowled at Gibraltar.

“Why did you do that? I _had_ them.”

Elliott -- who, along with his decoys, had taken to keep watch for any sign of another squad -- couldn’t help but make a face whilst the others were distracted. If it had been _him_ that had taken a kill away from Crypto like that, no doubt he’d be currently succumbing to countless insults and sarcastic jokes in a language he couldn’t understand. Just to rub it in what an idiot he already felt like.

“Sure,” Gibraltar replied, squatting down beside the unconscious body. He loosened a Peacekeeper from the downed foe’s belt, turned it over in his hands and scrutinised it, before pointing the gun down and opening the break-action. “You _had_ them. And what were you gonna do with them?”

Crypto stared at Makoa, as if he couldn’t even begin to understand the question. Elliott found himself having to bite back a smile: who looked like the idiot _now_?

“What was I going to _do_ to them? What we’re _here_ to do! What we need to do to _survive_.”

“Barking up the wrong tree there, new kid. You still got a lot to learn.” Elliott quipped, lowering his sniper and ducking into cover as Makoa tossed a few spare shield cells his way. Crypto shot him a dirty look, but it didn't deter him. “Chuckles there has a no-kill policy.”

Elliott felt a little smug at the way the kid’s face dropped, forgetting all about him for a moment as he whipped around and just _stared_ at Gibraltar, momentarily speechless. Elliott smirked, busying himself with stuffing shields into his pack and doing his best to appear like he wasn’t eavesdropping.

“Not kill?! In a _bloodsport_? But you’re -- you’ve been here -- how is it possible you’ve survived this long?”

Makoa barely lifted his head, letting out a soft chuckle whilst he shucked out the spent casings of the Peacekeeper and began to load fresh shells.

“Doing what I do. Protecting people. Weren’t no need to kill this guy.” Makoa raised the shotgun, and closed the break with a satisfying _click_. “Survivin’. It don't have to mean takin’ someone’s life.”

“And if they were Syndicate spies?” 

Elliott rolled his eyes, turning back to keep watch again. They were in a good spot, on top of one of the rooftops of the derelict office buildings that were dotted around Capitol City. Plus, their digital map had informed him that they were indeed inside the next Ring, so all they had to do for the time being was hold position and ensure no other teams were in the vicinity. Hell, if Crypto would quit griping and use that damn drone of his, he would be of some _actual_ use.

“Crypto, the only people that are out to get you are the ones that have been lucky enough to spend time with your _dazzling_ personality.”

He could hear Crypto growl even from his distance, but Gibraltar butted in before he could fire out a retort.

“Syndicate spies or no, don’t give you any licence to take a life.”

Elliott hadn’t been facing them, but was close enough to hear the hacker mutter something to himself; it wasn’t _entirely_ clear, but sounded an awful lot like ‘ _easy for you to say’._

He had been teamed with Makoa enough times to recognise the distinctive sound of his armour plating shifting that meant he was pulling himself back to his feet. 

“It ain’t easy.” Ah. So Elliott hadn’t been the only one to overhear the newbie. “Ain’t ever been easy. Nothin’s easy in this life. But I seen too many people die, brother. And for what? A chance at glory? A shiny trophy on a mantlepiece? Nah. Not me. I came here because I saw too many people die for nothing.”

Elliott raised his gaze again, this time shouldering his sniper as he slipped back behind a crate so he could begin to dismantle it in order to move on.

Or, if he was to be honest with himself...

He wanted to see for himself how this played out.

Gibraltar was calmly fitting the Peacekeeper to his gun belt, whilst Crypto appeared to be more confused than ever before. Elliott had to bite back yet another smile; it was _far_ too satisfying watching that smart-mouth brat have nothing clever to say for once _._

“That’s…” he splutters, “that’s...don’t you know what’s at _play_ here?”

Makoa reached up to crack his neck, flashing the other man a smile. Elliott felt his lips twitching: this time, not to respond with a smirk, but --

Well. It was difficult not to smile along with Mister Sunshine himself, _Gibraltar_.

“Brother, I ain’t interested in revenge. Not even to avenge the people I’ve lost. What good’s it do? Won’t bring anyone back. Better to just focus on the here and now and the people we _can_ protect instead.”

He clapped Crypto on the shoulder at that, then looked over towards Elliott.

“How we set?”

“Oh, you know. No one’s falling for the decoys, but,” Elliott feigned a dramatic sigh. “Be helpful if a certain _someone_ put their damn drone to use for us…”

That seemed to snap Crypto out of his stunned silence, snapping his head around to glower at Elliott. But Gibraltar beat them both to the -- possibly, quite literal -- punch, stepping between them and giving Elliott a gentle, warm smile.

Bizarrely, Elliott felt his cheeks grow hot. He was suddenly absurdly grateful that Gibraltar’s height and mass meant Crypto couldn’t see him.

“We’re all a team, yanno. Let’s act like one, yeah?”

Elliott could only nod. When Gibraltar stepped away, he finally locked eyes with Crypto.

Huh. Strangely enough, it felt like perhaps the first time he found himself feeling like he had anything remotely in common with the other man.

Because the mix of perplexion and embarrassment plastered on his face; he was fairly sure mirrored his own.

  
  


**

Things changed, when Revenant entered the games.

For everyone.

Sure, Caustic was not exactly the kind of guy a person found themselves feeling like they wanted to buddy up with: in fact, he’d never taken much interest in any of the other Legends until Natalie had joined.

But Revenant was... Something different.

Look, it wasn’t like what Caustic did was any less messed up. Elliott _hated_ being paired with him, didn’t matter how many times he saw it, witnessing the utter clinical detachment etched over his face as his victims choked out their last breath -- it never got any easier.

With Revenant, however;

Killing was mindless. The only purpose it seemed to serve, was for pleasure.

Gibraltar’s code was he was the guy who _didn’t_ kill anyone, but it didn’t mean any of the rest of them particularly felt good about it. Most of them tried to take precautions. Take a person out with an injury or knocking them unconscious, forcing them out of the Game entirely. But accidents happened, and sometimes the Med Ships didn’t arrive fast enough, and not everyone made it out alive.

After all, they didn’t call it a ‘bloodsport’ for nothing.

It wasn’t a subject Elliott liked to dwell on himself too long. He was here because he wanted to bring some joy to the folk back home, to the millions of people on Solace that were living through the aftermath of war, by watching a closed door they desperately wished might someday swing open. A temporary distraction from the numbness of everyday. The way he once lived, too.

Revenant’s first day in the Games, he hadn’t spared a single soul.

Came back to the dropship, practically _dripping_ in blood, and snickered at their faces when his kill count appeared onscreen.

“You skin suits,” he snarled, leaving bloodied footprints across the floor of the ship as he crossed it, “all the same. Weighed down by foolish notions like _conscience_ . Heh.” He sat himself down in a free seat, completely unphased by everyone’s gaze of utter repulsion. “Con- _science_ , get it? It’s all a con. They put it in your brain and make you think you gotta live by it.” He flexed his fingers, watching the blood drip from them, before glancing back up. “That’s the real joke. You make your own rules in this world. Be unlucky enough to live as long as I have, and you’ll learn that for yourself.”

The ride back to HQ had been uncharacteristically silent, after that.

**

_“You see that last look in their eyes, and you can see them ask you ‘_ why? _’”_

  
  


_**_

The old vet’s words echo around his mind once more, half a year later and again, teamed with both Gibraltar and Crypto.

It’s World’s Edge, but not like it was before. That Hammond Robotics’ Planet Harvester had ripped the damn place near asunder. Strangely enough, they were back at Capitol City, or rather, what remained of it. They’d come to just refer to either sides of the split as ‘Fragment East’ or ‘Fragment West’. It was all...incredibly unnerving, especially given how you know. There was straight up _lava_ fissures under the crumbling remains on which the buildings were precariously perched.

It had been one hell of a fight, and Elliott was barely holding it together, clutching the wound in his side where a Prowler bullet had torn through the vulnerable spots in his armour and ripped through the flesh beneath. He slumped against a wall, breathless, and began fumbling with clumsy, bloodied fingers for a Med Kit. Crypto wasn’t doing much better, trying to support himself with one hand on a crate as the other pulled out a syringe, his drone buzzing around them.

Which left Gibraltar, gun pointed at Revenant who lay sprawled at his feet. Who knew how he experienced pain -- and whilst Path had engaged Elliott in several enthusiastic conversations about this, he doubted it was the same kind of thing as Revenant.

“G-g-g-” his voice box was on the fritz it seemed, his voice glitching as he spoke, “gonna -- kill? Me? S-sk-skin suit?” 

The simulacrum made a noise then that he could only presume was a mocking laugh, despite the fact it came out more like crackled static.

Elliott and Crypto watched Makoa, both struggling too much with their own wounds to intervene. The larger man looked strangely calm. Calm, but stone-faced.

Elliott had known the guy over a year by then, and could not recall him ever looking quite like _this._

“No,” he said suddenly, pulling out his club and for a moment, pure _rage_ crossed his face. “I ain’t like you.”

The club _cracked_ against the simulacrum’s head, _hard,_ hard enough that the last of what was powering Revenant shorted out and his robotic body seemed to power down.

There was a beat, as both Elliott and Crypto tried to process what happened whilst they endured the sharp jolt of self-administered antibiotics and medicine go to work knitting their skin back together.

“M-M-Makoa,” Elliott grunted, syringe still pressed to his side. “Y-you sure that was -- was a good idea, bud? He’s a fucking -- _agh_ \-- he’s a wack job, right? We -- we know that! He’d slit our throats without a second thought. Maybe…” He winced, slowly pulling out the spent needle, and tossing it over the side of the building, into the bubbling lava below. Modern medicine was great and all, but the organisers couldn’t risk clouding Legends’ minds with too much painkiller. Bad for business and all that.

“Maybe you’d…you’d be doing? Uhm. The world a favour.”

He could feel Crypto looking at him, and when their eyes met, he was almost too shocked to continue when he saw the other wounded man give him an approving nod.

“ _No._ ”

Elliott whipped his gaze back around to Gibraltar, and could see from the corner of his eye that Crypto had too.

“That’s what _he_ would want. That’s the point he wants to prove. _He_ doesn’t _get_ to win.”

The duo watched in stunned silence, as Makoa knelt -- just like he had, so many months ago -- and begun to search his ‘unconscious’ body for parts.

“You’re making a huge mistake,” Crypto growled, shirking the collar of his coat as the medication kicked in. “Fiends like him deserve no mercy.”

Makoa stood up, this time not with a looted gun, but with four Med Kits that he’d found in Revenant’s possession. He approached Crypto first, nonchalantly handing them over like it was nothing

“Mercy, brother. It ain’t just about benevolence or kindness, or any of that. Sometimes? It’s just about showing some that good’s a stronger force than the ones who wanna harm us.”

Crypto had nothing to say to that, just stared at Gibraltar, holding the Med Kits in his hands. When Makoa approached Elliott, Elliott himself found himself speechless, and accepted the offerings without a word.

Makoa winked.

“Figured you might understand. Now. Let’s get the team patched up.”

**

 _“You see that last look in their eyes, and you can see them ask you ‘_ why?’”

**

That guy’s words rattling round his head again.

Elliott is sitting on the drop ship on the way back to HQ, watching Makoa and Ajay hook D.O.C. up to Revenant. The two of them are talking in hushed murmurs, both ignoring their own wounds until they ensure everyone else is seen to.

They were always like that, but tonight seems different. Even Octavio is strangely quiet, fidgeting with that knife of his and shooting occasional glances towards Ajay.

Elliott finds himself recalling the books his mother used to read him, as they watch them work.

“ _Do not be too eager to deal out death as judgment,_ ” he mutters to himself, his elbow perched on his knee so as to prop his chin in his hand. 

He hadn’t noticed Crypto lingering within earshot, and starts when the other man turns and scowls at him.

“ _Babo,_ ” he hisses. “You -- _we_ \-- must all be ready. _They_ are watching.”

Elliott watches him retreat, and realises that for once, he doesn’t feel the usual grumble of irritation. The other man slips back into his own space, still watching Gibraltar.

But Elliott had not missed that it was the first time Crypto had referred to his fellow Legends as a ‘ _we’_.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rushed this one a wee bit due to exhaustion and other factors, so apologies for sloppiness!


	3. RUINS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone lost something when King's Canyon shattered beneath their feet, that day Loba appeared.
> 
> But those ruins held a special extra meaning for those who had grown up with them.
> 
> 13/07/2020: Edited the many, many errors in this fic. My apologies. Don't post at 5:30 AM after a week of no sleep. x_x

**12.) R U I N S**

“ _Fuck,_ ”

Elliott’s never been known for his eloquence when it comes to saying the right thing, but standing here now, overlooking the ruins -- no, the utter _obliteration_ of the Thunderdome -- he can’t think of anything that can encapsulate this entire fucking mess better than that.

None of them had really gotten the opportunity to take in the devastation inflicted upon their home arena in the immediate aftermath; they had all been too distracted staring in disbelief at the woman who had clambered her way out of the debris. It was clear even from a distance how laboriously she was breathing, but still, she had found the strength all the same to whip out a gun and aim it point blank at that monster, Revenant.

Her shot pierced him through his synthetic skull, the overwhelming velocity sending him staggering back a few steps before collapsing into the dirt. The Syndicate suits arrived shortly after that, ushering the Legends back to HQ and, as always, refusing to answer any questions regarding what the _fuck_ had happened.

It had been this way a while -- ever since the collapse of the Repulsor, the Legends were kept in the dark as to what _exactly_ was happening around here. They all had their theories, sure: but none of them were prepared to risk their life by actually verbalising them aloud.

A weird sort of conundrum, Elliott ponders, as he crosses the sands surrounding the Thunderdome. They were the _Legends_ , the characters on the show that people tuned into to actually witness. But a step out of line, and -- 

That was it. They all knew that.

Best behaviour. Don’t ask questions. It sat easier with some of them than others, but it had always been the unspoken creed that came with being an Apex Legend, until more recent competitors had managed to achieve that status. And it had _worked_ , before people had started interfering and --

"Oh -- _motherfuck_ \-- _fuck!_ ”

Elliott yelps in pain, as his aggravated kick in the sand turns out to be hiding a fragment of Leviathan bone that had not collapsed into the sea along with the explosion. The pain is enough that he finds himself hopping a few steps forwards, clutching his toe, before falling back into the sand with a resentful growl.

The night sky here is calming, at least. Clear enough, that he can just about make some of what he’s pretty sure are constellations. He squints, trying to focus on the pattern.

For a moment, just a moment.

He can close his eyes, and let himself _pretend_.

***

_“Admit it, Ell,” Elon had snickered, elbowing his youngest brother hard enough in the ribs to hurt. “You can’t see shit.”_

_“I can_ so!" _Elliott had insisted --- all too aware he couldn’t make out much more than just...stars. No pattern, no nothing. It just looked like one mass of confused scattered light, so unlike the night sky over the densely-packed city they lived in and the light pollution that it brought._

_“It’s okay, Ell,” Roger had chuckled, grabbing his clenched fist, squeezing it gently enough as to relax the tension in his knuckles. He guided Elliott’s hand then, pointing and then guiding his hand to the next star so as to aid his vision._

_“You see?”_

_Elliott had cocked his head, squinting at the pattern his brother was tracing for the two of them._

_“Looks like a Titan.”_

_Roger chuckled, releasing his hand and falling back into the sand._

_“That’s ‘cuz it is. They all are.”_

_He paused, eyes locked on the seemingly endless sea of stars above them._

_“They’re our protectors.”_

***

Elliott has no fucking clue if he’s at that same place -- it might be, might be not, it’s difficult to tell when so much has fallen to ruin. He suspects that the nostalgia squeezing with increasing urgency behind his chest might mean it’s all just wistful sentimentality.

He runs a hand through his hair, gazing out at the wreckage and wondering what to do with the turbulence of emotions that were racing through him then and there.

Booze might not be the healthiest answer, but it’s the most available one, and so he settles his six-pack of beer at his side. He’s in the midst of cracking open a can, when he hears the sound of footsteps approaching from behind.

He might not be good at some things, such as speech or eloquence, but he’s an Apex Legend for a goddamn _reason_. He snatches the Wingman from his belt, swinging around instinctively and aims exactly towards the direction he had heard the tell-tale soft crunching of sand.

But --

There was no mistaking that silhouette. Elliott blinks in surprise, lowering his gun and feeling his cheeks redden with foolishness. This new...charged, uncertain energy that had entered the arena since the Repulsor first came down, had only become increasingly more strained as more and more kept quite literally tumbling down.

And here he was, pulling a gun on Makoa Gibraltar of all people.

Gibraltar chuckles, that _way_ he does; like it’s less for him, but for the people around him.

Like all that matters is ensuring he takes care of others.

“I come in peace,” he says with a smile, before brandishing a matching pack of beer. “Didn’t expect anyone else to be here.”

Elliott flushes a deeper shade of crimson, unconsciously trying to hide his gun. Completely nonsensical idea, really. He’d already pulled the damn thing on one of the few people he still trusted in this whole damn mess. 

“Uh. Sorry.” 

Gibraltar glances past him, over towards where the Thunderdome once stood, and for a moment there’s a flicker of...grief.

Elliott is momentarily taken aback. He’s seen moments of anguish on the field with Gibraltar, when a team-mate falls, and there’s no hope for the Med-Ships to reach them in time, the sorrow when he feels he has ‘failed’ to protect someone, but -- 

He’d never seen Makoa Gibraltar look genuinely heart-broken.

He pats the six-pack beside him, ignoring the residue of embarrassment fluttering inside his chest.

“Need company?”

Makoa looks at him, this time the one surprised, and lifts his eyes again to where the Thunderdome stood.

 _Oh_. He winces at his blunder.

It would be foolish to think Elliott wasn’t the only person who had special memories of here.

“Or -- I mean, if you wanna -- if you want to be --”

“Yeah,” Makoa interrupts. Perhaps Elliott imagines it, but it seems like some of the tension leaves the bigger man’s body at that. “I’d -- I’d like that.”

Makoa settles himself down at Elliott’s side, pulling out a beer from his own collection and cracking open a can. Elliott had been beside the big guy when he was out of his armour plenty of times, but never quite _this_ close. Even stripped down to a simple tank-top and cargo shorts, Makoa Gibraltar was a larger-than-life presence.

Never intimidating, though. Maybe in the Ring if you were up against him, and you could see him preparing to knock you out with that club of his, but not ever like this. Besides, even in the Games, if you found your strength failing in combat against Gibraltar, knew that you weren’t going to win the fight, at least you knew…You knew that in a few hours, you’d be waking up in a sick bed, hooked up to healing drones, sore as hell but still _alive_.

Whenever Gibraltar was the last opponent you faced, and you felt the last of your strength leave your body, there was this strange feeling of... _relief._

You weren’t going to die. He wouldn’t let you.

Strange thing to think, when you willingly participated in a bloodsport. 

But when you were crawling through the mud, gritting your teeth whilst you try to ignore your own, warm blood spilling through your fingers, doing your utmost to hold together the perforated bullet holes in your side --

And you think of your mother, back home, maybe watching, maybe not, unsure on any given day as it was if she had lost all her children, or if one remained, or if she even _remembered_ she’d birthed four sons --

Times like those, Makoa Gibraltar’s face was a welcome sight in the midst of a fierce firefight.

As it was, now, sitting here under the quiet night sky of King’s Canyon. Solace was a hot planet, unlike Talos, so even in the desert, it remained pleasantly warm out in the dark. There was a gentle sea breeze, which might have even been peaceful if it weren’t for the fact it was an unpleasant reminder of the fact that both the Thunderdome and Skull Town had been sucked beneath the water’s inky depths.

Elliott was known for being _awful_ with the very notion of silence, unable to stop himself from flying into fits of awkward babbling, even when alone. It was one the things about him that he despised the most about himself, yet seemed to to be unable to control. He didn’t know why -- he suspects it might have something to do with his deep rooted fears of being left completely alone, after all the losses he had already suffered in life, but that was the kind of thing he preferred not to think about and thus he suppressed it, like he did most things.

Yet, with Makoa at his side, both sipping their beers side-by-side, it felt...companionable. Dare he say it, but even _comfortable._ Something about Makoa and the way he never made Elliott feel like an awkward idiot, but like he actually enjoyed his company. No matter how much of a fool he made of himself.

“Well, brother,” Makoa proclaims, eventually, lowering the can from his lips and contemplating the horizon. “You’re from Solace too. Ever come out here? Before, yanno..” He made a sweeping gesture with his free hand of the area the Thunderdome had once stood. “The Games started. Ya ever come _here_ here?”

Elliott bit his lip. He wasn’t so great talking about his life as Elliott, and not as Mirage. Makoa… He knew he wouldn’t press if Elliott told him he’d rather not talk about it, but strangely -- Elliott finds himself _wanting_ to talk about it. With Gibraltar, at least.

“Not properly,” he admits, taking another drink. The beer is refreshingly cold, crisp against his parched tongue, especially out here in the vast stretch of sand. “My -- my --” he swallows, idly turning the beer can between his hands. “Brothers. We, uh -- we would come out here sometimes. Back when travel was a bit easier, y'know?” He’s a little surprised how easily the words were flowing, but takes another swig of booze before he can doubt himself too much. “Came to the Market.. They did this _killer_ Leviathan stew, I dunno if you ever tried it but _man_ … Didn’t have anything on my brother’s recipe, though. R--Roger.” 

Another gulp of beer. He’s babbling but be it the booze, or just the way Makoa constantly seemed to radiate ease and patience, it gives him enough confidence to continue.

“Yeah… Wasn’t as good, but I liked the atmosphere. Same with Skull Town -- lotta soldiers, but hell, so was the City, right?” Elliott laughs, a little too forced. He drags a finger through the loose sand collected between his knees, absent patterns that are almost filled again immediately. “My brothers were soldiers.”

He catches himself, freezing in the act of his etching.

 _Shit_.

He’d never told anyone about his brothers being in the army before. Made a point of trying to keep his family out of the media entirely, besides discussing the technology him and his mother had developed together.

Even with the friends he’d made amongst the Legends -- Gibraltar included -- he did _not_ mention his brothers.

There had come a point, even, when listening to Anita’s certainty about finding her family had become too much, that Elliott had had to start excusing himself from those conversations entirely.

He -- he -- his breath is caught in his throat and he --

“Me too,” Makoa chips in, all of a sudden. All of the breath Elliott has been holding rushes out of him all at once, head swivelling to look at the other man. Makoa is still staring off where the land had collapsed into the sea, idly tapping his beer can against the side of his leg. “Used t’come here all the time. Heh, we probably passed each other some time or the other.” He chuckles heartily, smiling as he raises the drink to his lips. “How ‘bout that.”

Elliott can’t help but smile along with him. Maybe it’s the booze, maybe it’s the warmth of the night, maybe it’s the company, or just some muddled combination of it all, but he feels his shoulders relax, lets himself settle a little bit easier in the sand. Not something he thought would have been possible, in the wake of ever even briefly mentioning his brothers.

“Yeah. How about that.”

Another minute or two passes, both sipping their drinks and contemplating what was no longer there. It’s no longer simply companionable silence, but...positiviely peaceful.

Strange. Elliott can’t remember last time he has ever considered silence anything but anxiety-inducing. Sometimes, back home, when he was closing up the bar or when his mother was sleeping, he even used his decoys to fill the room with chatter. Not even with him, but with one another.

He had spent too much time in a home absent of noise, when once the constant clamour made it difficult to be heard.

“Met my first love just over there.”

Elliott can’t help but turn abruptly towards the other man, completely taken aback by the sudden confession. Makoa isn’t even looking at him, nor is he judging Elliott’s blatant rudeness as he openly gawps at him, simply points in the direction of where the Thunderdome had once stood with the hand holding his beer. 

“Yeah. Sounds crazy, right?” He chuckles, rattling the can to see how much remained, before taking a final swig and reaching for a new one. “Used’ta work ‘round these parts. Grunt work. Nothing special. But that’s when I met him. Nikolas.”

The name weighs heavy on Gibraltar’s tongue, and Elliott can see him swallow as he cracks open another can. There’s that look of grief again, the same he witnessed a flicker of earlier, but now...etched deeper, marked deep into the creases of his face.

“Too young, yanno, to do anything _real_. But picked up some work here and there, haulin’ creates, all that...s’where I met Nik.”

He smiles, but it’s not the same one Elliott is used to. 

It feels strangely foreign, seeing him like this. Yet not uncomfortable. Far from it.

Elliott’s not one for talking about feelings, or at feeling equipped to deal with anyone else’s. But, as he dangles his beer between his fingers, there's not the urge to escape the conversation that usually coarses through his veins during moments like these. Makoa is still gazing off into the distance, yet his very body language makes it clear he hasn’t forgotten his companion, keeps his body tilted slightly in his direction.

It was appreciated. Elliott can’t stand the idea of being forgotten, no matter how short a time.

“Ahhh… I was stupid back then.”

Elliott lets out a noise of disbelief, and Makoa tilts his head back in his direction, eyebrows raised.

“Sorry,” Elliott chuckles, reaching for another beer. " _Th_ _at,_ I find hard to believe.”

Gibraltar laughs, rolling back onto the sand so that he’s simply propping his upper body up with his muscular arms.

“Nah. _Very_ stupid. Shoulda recognised what I had, held onto it with all I got, but..”

Silence again.

“You -- you don’t always have a choice.”

Makoa looks again at him once more: puzzled, but not judgemental. Heat floods Elliott’s face, and he tries to mask it with another long swig of beer. The coolness snakes down his throat, and that combined with the headiness of the booze gives him the strength to continue.

“I -- I mean -- you were right. I came to the Thunderdome, uhm, not...not long before it closed. With my brothers.” His face feels warm, and he’s tempted to press the beer can to it, but stumbles onwards. “We...we snuck in one time. Just the four of us. Mom was so _pissed_ when we got back, but…” His lips inadvertently twitch. Whether with a smile, or a tremble, he isn't entirely sure.

“We managed it. Got to watch those soldiers duelling it out, _heh_ , and all for free. I -- I was a kid though. Kept looking at them and won -- won -- _thinking_ . Why did they do it? Just hurt each other for sport?” He traces the condensation on the surface of the beer, circling it round the rim of the can. “It _is_ funny, ain’t it. Here we are. Doing the exact same thing.”

Elliot closes his eyes, ever-so-briefly.

“Is -- do --you -” 

He heaves a sigh, tucking his knees to his chest and staring out at the ruins that has once held such fond memories.

“...Do you think it’s worth it? What we do? Are we getting it all wrong?”

The quiet overtakes them again. This time, Elliott doesn’t mind. He’s too swept away with all his other doubts.

He’s jolted out of his uncertainty, when he feels a large, warm hand settle over his. Nothing more than that; simply a reminder of a steady presence.

That despite what he believes, he was not actually alone. 

When he turns his gaze back to Makoa, the other man is smiling. His hair is falling loose from the messy knot he usually keeps it in, and Elliott feels the strangest urge to reach out and touch it.

“Does it feel right to you?”

He _could_ scoff; afterall, it was an activity which they risked their lives for, simply just to give the post-conflict worlds scattered across the universe, something to invest in now that the war was technically ‘over’.

Elliott thinks back to the many months he’d spent tending bar in Paradise Lounge before buying it out, watching veterans and common-folk from both sides of the divide gather and cheer for their competitor of choice in the Games. Watched the empty look of trying to comprehend the end of war slowly sink away, watched as the Games gave them a common cause to root for.

Wanting to contribute to that.

Putting smiles back on their faces. That time he’d first returned home after his first Game. Not even needing the Mirage persona to deflect how he was actually feeling, that happiness of seeing Solace City given a chance to celebrate for once.

“Yeah,” he replies, finally. “It does.”

The sand shuffles between them, and he intakes his breath sharply when Gibraltar’s thick fingers twine between his. He stares down at them before lifting his eyes back to meet Makoa’s.

There’s no doubt. No nothing. Just a bashful smile as he holds eye contact.

Elliott’s instinct is to run. To get away. To do _anything_ but deal with the variety of flurried emotions that were trying to tear him in every which way.

He swallows them back down, and curls his fingers around Makoa’s.

When he lifts his gaze. Gibraltar’s shy smile matches his own. Elliott brushes his fringe out of his face, feeling uncharacteristally calm, and shuffles closer.

A heavily muscled, tattooed arm wraps itself around his shoulder, pulling him close. Elliott chuckles softly, pressing his ear to Gibraltar’s chest and the solid _thud_ of his heart.

That was the thing about ruins after all, wasn’t it?

All was built on rubble and dust.

Nothing was created without foundation, to improve what had been there before.

  
***


	4. DREAMS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you do, then, when you achieve your goals, your dreams, your aspirations, and yet in spite of them all, you remain deeply unhappy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually previously posted this on Ao3 as part of several drabble prompts, realised it could work for today's prompt so decided to rework it a bit and post it whilst I work on some 'late' promtps. So my apologies to anyone who has read it before! 
> 
> I have it on *coughs* good authority that this is allowed and counts so, uh, enjoy new readers1

**_if you could wake up one morning and all your dreams had come true, what would that look like?_ **

**_  
_**Elliott used to think he knew the answer to that.

Growing up, the answer had seemed so simple. _The end of war_. He’d never known anything different, and so it had seemed too inconceivable a world to ever actually be, but –

He’d hoped, all the same.

Then one by one, his three brothers had enlisted with the Militia, and one by one, they hadn’t come home. Their small home, where once upon a time he’d had to work so hard in order to even be heard over all the noise, suddenly silent. He never saw his mother cry – she never did, not around him, anyway – but she smiled significantly less after that third MIA notification.

So, the answer remained the same. The end of war – which would surely mean his brothers would come home then, given that missing didn’t mean _dead_ after all – and to see his mother smile again.

But sometimes, the impossible really _did_ happen. The pilot Jack Cooper and his Titan destroyed the planet Typhon, thus finally bringing peace across the Systems, after decades of conflict. People had taken to the streets in celebration on every planet all over the Frontier – Elliott had been working the bar when the news came through, the holo-screens dotted around the room interrupted by emergency broadcasts. The whole room had fallen into a stunned silence, before erupting in vast variations of emotion: some people had cheered, some had wept, most had done both, whilst some just sat frozen in their chair, unable to actually comprehend what had just happened. Elliott hadn’t even looked for his manager – rules didn’t apply on a day like today. He’d simply whipped the bar towel from off his shoulder and onto the bar, before taking off and out of the room like a shot, sprinting the whole way home.

His mother had been there, on the couch in front of the TV, wearing her oil-stained shirt and slacks, smudges of dirt on her face, which meant she must have come straight from her workshop. She didn’t cry in front of Elliott, but she was crying then when she turned and looked at him, but smiling too.

And as Elliott had knelt in front of her, and pulled her against him in a hug, he had thought: _finally_.

Everything was going to be okay.

Neither of them had expected to hear anything in the coming week, or even the one after that, things were too hectic, what with everyone trying to figure out with what a life without conflict even _looked_ like. But as the days went by, as other families in the city began to receive communications from their loved ones they’d believed lost to the war, as soldiers began to return home to daily celebrations, Elliott and his mother had stood by their door and watched, wordless. He’d put a reassuring arm around her shoulders, and she would lean into him for just a second, her eyes closed – before straightening herself back up, pulling her long blonde hair back into a bun and announcing she was heading back to the workshop.

So the war had ended, and still, Elliott was not happy.

A new answer seemed to present itself, however, when he began to hear talk of the Apex Games. It had been at the bar the first time he heard of them: he would overhear the odd comment here and there at first, but then it soon seemed like it was all anyone who came to the Lounge talked about. There were plenty of people still in Solace, much like himself and his mother, to whom the end of the war hadn’t exactly spelled the end of their sorrows, and watching their faces light up as they chatted excitedly over the Games themselves, urged Elliott to switch the holo-screens to the channels airing them or even just interviews with the stars of the Games themselves, well.

Those smiles. That shared joy in something. A thing that brought people together the way the Games seemed to, a thing to focus on, outside of the lingering grief in the aftermath of the war.

It stuck with him.

He’d followed the Games religiously, watching them from the Lounge or at home, chatting with patrons over them, collecting newspapers and magazines and pouring over them at length. Elliott wasn’t exactly naturally confident, but the Games seemed like something he might actually be _good_ at. His brothers had taught him how to handle a gun, he practiced down the range regularly, and he could see just how much of an advantage the custom holo-pilot technology his mother and he had been working on could provide in the ring. No one _else_ knew the Pilot technology to cloak, and that combined with the holo-decoys, well… Distraction was a powerful tactic.

But he couldn’t leave his mother childless. They took precautions in the Games to prevent it, he knew, but people still died. The respawn system wasn’t flawless, nor could it protect you from _every_ thing. And so he kept his hopes and dreams to himself, and kept on working on their designs with his mother in his free time, whilst working overtime in the bar to make ends meet.

Then the day came when she handed him over their custom tech, and told him to follow his dreams. Smiling as she did so.

His mother did not cry around Elliott. But Elliott cried then, as he held her in his arms and thanked her.

And promised to make her proud.

He had thought he might do well in the Games, but he could have never anticipated the reception that he ended up getting. He’d been right – his custom holo-tech designs had quite literally bamboozled his opponents, and he’d even managed to win in his very first game. Achieved Legend status after his first season, something Path and Makoa had told him was practically unheard of and that he should be proud of.

And he’d smiled and he’d been pleased, whilst at the same time, being all too aware of the dull ache gnawing away behind his chest.

Because it had been his dream, and he’d achieved it.

And he still wasn’t happy.

What do you do, then, when you achieve your goals, your dreams, your aspirations, and yet, in spite of them all, you remain deeply unhappy?

Lying awake at night, his breath coming uneven, digging his fingers into the sheets of his bed as he stared up at the ceiling and tried to not let the loneliness consume him – he couldn’t help but ask himself this.

And hate that he already knew the answer.

Because the answer wasn’t possible. Happiness, peace of mind, a perfect life: the ugly truth was that none of it was possible anymore.

He closes his eyes, lays a hand over his rapidly beating heart, and allows himself for just a second, to _pretend_.

It’s so simple. It’s a dinner table at his own home – him and his partner’s, someone who was actually able to put up with his bullshit, his neuroses, the endless list of issues that plagued him wherever he might go. The table is full, his brothers all returned, safe albeit not entirely unharmed from the war. They tease him for his various scars, his Legend status, but it’s all in jest. They’re serving their favourite: mom’s old recipe, passed onto him, garlic butter baked pork chops, and the wine is flowing. His four dogs nudge at their laps as they eat, staring up pleadingly at the attendees – and dutifully rewarded with the odd scrap because really, who could say no to those faces?

His partner is holding his hand on the table, seated beside him. They give it a reassuring squeeze every so often.

Whenever Elliott looks at his mother, she is smiling.

Reality washes back over him, and the cavernous ache in his chest threatens to swallow him more than ever.

He will not sleep tonight.

Dreams sound all well and good, until you realise just how much they can leave you feeling empty.


	5. HOME // FAMILY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BROKEN GHOST QUEST SPOILERS //
> 
> In the aftermath of everything that has happened, the Legends are forced to consider what family even means anymore.
> 
> As they arrive back to Solace, they consider whether family can be rebuilt, and whether 'home' necessarily even means a single place, but potentially a person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY well this chapter nearly killed me! One and a half week of no sleep, but I THINK I'm proud of it??? Comments and kudos very much appreciated, it really fuels me to continue! <3
> 
> MASSIVE THANKS TO THE PLATONIC LOML HALO AS ALWAYS FOR BETAING AND KEEPING ME GOING!!!!
> 
> Crypto/Wattson and Lobalore feature in the background, as well as siblings Ajay and Octane feels 💖

**HOME + FAMILY**

_“APPROACHING… DESTINATION -- SOLACE CITY -- PLANET, SOLACE… APPROACHING… ESTIMATED TIME AT LANDING DESTINATION...FIFTEEN HUNDRED HOURS, THIRTY MINUTES... “_

_Home._

With the notion comes the same, familiar fluctuating feeling of anxiety, fear and thrill that flutters in Elliott’s gut each and every time. One would think that with experience, it might get easier, but if anything, he suspects it might be getting worse.

That uneasy feeling that nestled at the back of his mind. That one day, he would arrive home and she would simply not know him anymore.

It was the end of the Season, which meant depending where you lived, you had the option to return home to your own planet -- if that were even an option. What planets were still safe to touch down on, varied depending on the state of conflict in the skirmishes that still kicked up between the colonies throughout the Outlands.

It always surprised him. Only himself, Makoa and Natalie hailed from Solace, the others just kept temporary accommodation there. And yet, each time a Season came to a close, the other Legends accompanied the trio on their journey back home.

Maybe they’d nowhere else to go; like Pathfinder. Maybe they couldn’t go home, like Anita.

And others... Well, after all that had just taken place back on King’s Canyon, the familiar trip back to Solace City seemed like the only option.

The ship was unusually quiet on this voyage, enough so that Elliott suspects you might even be able to hear the steady _hum_ of the engine were it not for the blare of Octavio’s various monitors, each broadcasting a different game. 

The unusual thing, however, was -- well, for one, Octavio was _sitting_ in his chair rather than bouncing around in it like an overexcited child, and was actually ignoring the endless stream of noise blaring from behind him. Secondly, he looked uncharacteristically serious as he addressed Ajay, who was leaning against his wall with a small frown.

He keeps his voice low -- again, _not_ something Elliott was at all used to when it came to the younger man, but gesticulates wildly enough that it was clear that whatever he was saying, it involved all of them in the dropship,

Ajay tilts her body away from him, clearly irate by whatever he’s telling her. Neither Octavio or Ajay cared to share too much about their history together, and Elliott knew better than to ask. Well -- ask _them_ , anyway. He had asked Wraith once if she thought they used to date, which had earned him a withering look from her, and a giggle from Natalie.

He took that as a ‘no’.

Regardless, he can’t help but keep looking over their way; if only because it spares him from thinking about what had just happened out in Kings Canyon.

Thinking about that _face_ , jerking to life like that, severed limbs contorting in ways that seemed unnatural even for a synthetic --

Nope. He wasn’t going there.

Watching Octavio and Ajay was preferable. He’d noticed he wasn’t in the only one doing it: even Anita was stealing glances at them from time to time with a frown. As well as casting the odd, quick, curious look at Loba when she thought no one was watching, but for all his flaws, Elliott _had_ been a bartender for the better half of his life. He was good at studying people.

“ _Enough_ ,” she hisses suddenly. “I said wha’ I said. Ain’t repeating m’self one more time, okay, Silva? _Enough_.”

She straightens up, pushing herself off the wall of his dorm. Elliott immediately casts his eyes back down, goes back to pretending to read the copy of the Outlands Journal propped up on his lap. He’d been studying it to try and suss out how much the suits at the Syndicate had told the press about exactly what had happened during the final Season, but concentration had become increasingly difficult as of late.

He can tell from the sound of her footsteps pounding across the floor of the dropship, that Ajay must be crossing the ship and making her way back towards her own room, but she halts suddenly when a voice calls out --

“ _Ajay._ ”

Elliott peeks out over the top of the paper. Ajay stands near the middle of the ship, scowling, her hands balled into fists. She doesn’t turn around. But she doesn’t keep walking either.

“ _No te traicionare hermana, no otra vez, no denuevo_.”

Elliott’s not the only one staring. Nearly everyone else on the ship that he can see has thrown all pretence at subtlety to the wind, but neither of them appear to notice.

Octavio’s mask and headpiece were discarded, and Elliott finds himself struck by just how...sincere he looks. He had always figured the guy two shakes short of a Martini -- no, scratch that, Octavio was what you got when you mixed pure methylated spirits with lighter fluid -- so seeing his expression so solemn feels like getting struck in the side of a head by a Peacekeeper.

Whatever he said, it gets to Ajay. Her face softens, and when she turns back around, Octavio’s lights up in a smile.

She walks back across the dropship, this time settling down on the side of his bed. He seats himself at her side, and they go back to their hushed conversation.

This time, Elliott doesn’t even try to eavesdrop. 

He knows a private family moment when he sees one.

***

_“APPROACHING… DESTINATION -- SOLACE CITY -- PLANET, SOLACE… APPROACHING… READY YOURSELF FOR ARRIVAL… DOCKING BAY ETA FIFTEEN MINUTES... “_

_Home_.

Elliott pulls himself to his feet, holds onto the stabilising bar as the ship begins to rumble its way towards descent. It wasn’t like they’d been away particularly long -- the trips to Talos were harder, long stays away on an alien planet where he never knew exactly when he’d be allowed back home again. Or if he’d be coming back home in a body bag. 

Not that King’s Canyon was any less dangerous -- the last year of the Games had proved it was anything _but_ , they had all been lucky to survive the Repulsor towers coming down, not to mention large parts of the island crumbling into the sea beneath their feet. Still, somehow knowing that he got to go back home, or somewhere nearby, at the end of the day made a strange kind of difference.

Natalie’s room is only one over from his, and she, too, stands in a similar position, gripping the support bar firmly. Her expression echoes the fractures that had split between their group in the last couple of weeks, ever since…

Now that Elliott is facing the rest of the Legends’ personal lodgings, he can openly look about them all. Crypto has not risen from his computer, instead hangs tight to his desk, face drawn taught in the same scowl that had been etched on his face ever since the fight that had erupted back in the bar so many weeks ago. Reflecting back on it now, Elliott feels evermore the fool that he hadn’t paid more attention to Natalie’s needs, rather than his own egoistical ones, but…

 _“DOCKING BAY...ETA...TEN MINUTES…_ ”

“Home!” Pathfinder suddenly chirps from across the ship. It feels like everyone’s heads swivel at once, so surprised at the interruption in the tense silence that had threatened to swallow them the entire journey back. “Nearly home! Well, perhaps not my home, but -- I feel very much like Solace is a home now! Should we celebrate at Mirage’s bar? It _is_ the end of a Season after all!”

Natalie looks away, morosely. Wraith watches her carefully with her usual stillness, but appears more on guard than ever. Elliott can’t quite see Octavio from where he’s seated, but Ajay jerks around as if she’d forgotten the rest of them were even there.

Was this...was this the right time? After all the events that had just taken place, at _his_ own bar on top of everything else -- he knew Path meant well but --

“A drink sounds good t’me,” Ajay suddenly announces from across the way. Elliott jerks his neck around with a jolt; if anything, it looked like both Octavio and her needed some more time alone.

He doesn’t miss how Ajay extends a hand to the man still seated still on his bed, and whilst he does pause for a moment -- just the barest of one, but a moment all the same -- he snatches his arm, and pulls himself back upright.

“ _¡_ _Sí!_ Tequila! We’ll see this time who’s the last one standing, eh _hermana?_ ”

Ajay snickers.

“Ya got robotic legs an’ I could _still_ drink ya under the table, Silva.”

Then comes a familiar hearty chuckle a few dorms down. 

“Not without me, you don’t. Gibraltar got to show you how it’s _done_.”

Much like before, he can practically _feel_ everyone’s heads turn in unison towards Gibraltar, but it’s Elliott’s eyes that he searches for. He grins, warmly, when their gazes lock, and Elliott feels his face redden, the curve of his lips twitching up into a shy smile.

“ _Heh_ .” The sound of knuckles being cracked sounds across the ship, and Anita steps out of her room, smirking. “Typical FNGs. All mouth, no action. You don’t grow up a Williams without knowing how to throw a party.” Her face softens for just a moment, but she regroups quickly. “Been one hell of a Season. More used to the parties coming _before_ deployment, but suppose that’s just family tradition… Think you might be right, Path. Letting off some steam might do us all some good.”

Elliott is aware he’s openly gawking, but it’s hard to suppress it when _Anita_ of all of them is suggesting they grab some drinks together after the last several weeks. Surely --

Anita manages to surprise him even further, by stepping around the wall divider between her room and the adjoining, craning her neck to address the person inside.

“What about you, Corset?”

Loba jolts up from the papers she was studying -- she seemed to look over them often, Elliott had noticed. Just three sheets. It wasn’t that he was being particularly _nosy_ or anything, but paper was rare these days. Shortage of trees, abundance of technology and all that -- he had always figured them to be one of the expensive treasures she was known for collecting, but something about the way held them with a special kind of a reverence, made him suspect otherwise.

She looks about as astonished as the rest of the group probably does, her expression swiftly shifting from one of shock, to confusion and even, for the briefest of moments, relief -- before narrowing her eyes and glowering at the other woman suspiciously.

“What is this? Some kind of trick?”

Anita rolls her eyes.

“No tricks, Pigtails. Just a good old-fashioned party invite. What, you never got one of those before?”

This time, it’s _them_ holding one another’s gaze. Long enough so that Elliott has the time to catch Gibraltar’s eye again, long enough for the other man to give him a wink and cause Elliott’s blush to deepen that much more, before looking back at the other pair. Fortunately, it seems the rest of the Legends were too busy watching Loba and Anita to pay much notice.

Loba nimbly snatches the wolf head pommel from her desk, twirls it between deft fingers before flicking it out to extend into its usual cane manifestation. She uses it to elegantly push herself up from her chair, and adapt her typical, bold demeanour. 

Elliott momentarily considers just how alike they are in that moment: both putting on a show of being brazen, impenetrable adversaries, yet somehow could not sense just how vulnerable they look in this instance.

Another thought that would earn him a worse fate than knocked out with a shotgun, much more likely they’d team up to crush his windpipe beneath _both_ their boots, if he was ever stupid enough to voice it alound, and so he keeps his musings to himself.

“ _P_ _erhaps_ ,” Loba finally announces, “we have spent too long in the lavatory Mirage considers a back room.”

Elliott mouths a silent ‘ _hey_ ’ -- it wasn’t exactly _easy_ running a bar as well as being an Apex Legend, balancing the Lounge, his mom and the Games was difficult enough as it is. 

“ _But_. I suppose I never got the chance to see the rest of this...ah… Lounge? Bar? Has to offer?” Loba’s eyes fall on Elliott and she coyly runs her tongue over her upper lip. “You had better be able to match the quality that they serve on Olympus.”

Before Elliott has the chance to respond, Ajay speaks.

“Paradise Lounge got much more t’offer than tha’ swill they serve back on Psamanthe,”

“Oh?” Loba arches a single, finely groomed brow. “How interesting. Consider me excited to sample such finely selected beverages."

The ship _rumbles_ again, harder this time, and the automated voice begins to call over the speakers again.

_“DOCKING BAY...ETA...IMMEDIATE...PASSENGERS, PLEASE PREPARE FOR DISEMBARKMENT...WE REPEAT…”_

“A party it is!” Pathfinder declares, clapping his hands together in delight. “Well… If that is okay with you, Mirage? I would not like to have a party without my very best friend! Especially in his own bar!”

It’s then that he realises he hasn’t said anything at all, the whole journey home.

He can feel the eyes all trained upon him, which is something he should be used to by now, but it still sets off that flutter of panic that momentarily feels like it might close off his windpipe or something. But he thinks of Gibraltar’s smile, of Path’s willful determination to not let this division between them fester, of the look on Ajay’s face when Octavio had called out to her on the ship only half an hour ago…

“I -- I -- uhm -- Okay! I mean, not _okay_ okay, but okay!”

Shit. As if that made any sense, or the hostility between them any better. 

“I mean -- yeah! Ab-- abs -- sure! I just gotta, uhm. Stop by my mom’s first and uh -- but!” 

_God,_ he sounded like a teenager.

“Once I know she’s okay, then -- yeah! A party.” He exhales, only realising then just how much tension he was holding onto. What a fucking Season indeed. “A party sounds good! Great, actually!”

Makoa claps his hands together.

“Then it’s decided! Paradise Lounge in two hours!”

“ _DOCKING ENGAGED… PREPARE TO DISEMBARK IMMEDIATELY, WE REPEAT…”_

They all stood then, holding onto the grips that surrounded the ship. Now that most of the tension had seemed to have drained from the room, things were returning to some small semblance of normality: Octavio disattaches one of his legs, waving it tauntingly at Ajay, as she tries to frown in disapproval yet can’t help but laugh. Path was talking excitedly to Elliott and Makoa about the various ways he was hoping to spend the off-season, and Anita and Loba stood in position side-by-side, very clearly biting back smiles. 

Still, some were missing. Elliott tries to shoot glances around his companions, to try and figure out where they were.

Wraith is standing by Natalie’s side, a hand on her shoulder as she murmurs something indistinguishable over the noise of the ship. Crypto still sat at his computer, though he seemed to be ignoring the various monitors in favour of playing with that puzzle remote of his.

Caustic continues to ignore them all, muttering beneath his breath as he jots down notes about God only knows what kind of fresh hell he was planning, No one had spoken much to him since the truth had come out.

And Revenant…

His room wasn’t made up of much. A stark contrast to the only other synthetic in the Legends, Pathfinder, who displayed all his trophies and fanart and various other memorabilia proudly in his space. Revenant just kept a hammock, a broken mirror, and nothing else.

As far as Elliott could tell, he was lying in the hammock, uninterested in the going-on’s around him. He hadn't even stirred when the group in the ship had gradually begun to spring back to life.

Fine by Elliott, really. 

He never had been good at awkward party invites.

“ _DOCKING PROCEDURE ENGAGED... PREPARE FOR IMMEDIATE DEPARTURE…”_

There’s a final shudder throughout the ships, and the sound of the engines’ roar finally slowing to a _purr_ , that signified that the ship had indeed docked at port successfully.

“ _¡_ _Dos horas!_ ” Octavio yells over his shoulder, already stomping his feet around the dropship exit. “Tequila for _all!_ ”

“Long as you’re payin’” Elliott reminds him: he’s had enough encounters with rich entitled kids, Octavio included, who expected to be treated differently when it came to settling the tab.

Natalie stands suddenly, her face determined. Even Wraith looks surprised, despite the fact she had been talking to the engineer for the last ten minutes.

She shakes her head, pulling down the hood she used to mask the auditory overload, and takes a deep breath.

Elliott can see her lips move, whispering something lost to the noise of the ship’s raucous, then makes her way towards --

His eyes widen when he realises where she’s headed.

Natalie raps her knuckles against the side of Crypto’s room, startling him out of his aggravated study of his puzzle, which drops to the floor as soon as he realises who is there.

The room is too full of chatter and the occasional snigger here or there, especially where Elliott is situated. close to the door as he is, so he can’t make out what’s being said.

Whatever it is, it makes Crypto genuinely smile.

Which is weird, because the kid -- no, _fuck_ , old man? -- hardly ever smiled unless it was a sneer, or sarcastic, or the rare occasions like these when he spoke to Natalie and Natalie alone, but after everything that had happened --

His musings are sharply interrupted as the door lets out a final, prolonged gasp, steam hissing through the cracks before slowly rising, the smell of ships and gasoline and the shouts of dock workers gradually flooding their senses.

Loba wrinkles her nose in distaste, but Elliott lets his eyes close, takes a moment to breathe it all in.

 _Home_.

***

It had been one of Evelyn Witt’s better days. That enough, had Elliott feeling practically giddy.

Not as good as some of them -- there were still the occasional day where it was almost like everything was the way it should be. _Almost_. She’d be mid-way through sketching out a highly-advanced blueprint for an improvement of his holo-tech equipment, then comment absent-mindedly if he knew when one of his brothers might be getting shore leave. 

It was hard, to say the very least. 

But he had learned to take the good where he could get it.

That evening, it had turned out she’d actually watched the final Game of the Season, seen him declared _champion_ and the look on her face when he came in that door..

He carried the guilt of leaving her, despite her wishes, wherever he went. It was impossible to put down. 

But when she would reach up and touch his face gently, smiling, as she studied his face and uttered the words he so _desperately_ wanted to hear:

“You always make me proud.”

He had almost not wanted to leave her that evening, but she had insisted, practically bundling him out the door like she had used to when he was just a bratty kid who didn’t want to go to school that day. 

“I can _stay_ \-- I wanna --”

“I’ll be here when you get home, Elli,” she laughs. “You _won_ You’re a _champion!_ You should go celebrate with your team.”

She pauses, for just a second.

“You don’t get as much time with the people you care about in this life, no matter how much you wish otherwise. It’s always better to make the most of what you have.”

Confusion flashes over her face momentarily, and Elliott it just about to reach out when --

Christian, her carer, lays a hand softly on his mother’s shoulder.

“Evelyn. Weren’t you going to show me around the workshop?”

Her eyes light up.

“Yes! Of course! There’s this piece, Christian, that I think maybe you might actually be able to help with...maybe the doctors would let me work with some of the equipment if you were there with me…?”

Her cheeks practically glow with excitement, especially when Christian acquiesces that something could be potentially arranged, and the tension Elliott realises had been gripping his chest releases. 

He gives his mother a kiss on the cheek, Christian a thankful shake of the hand, and heads on out the walk to Paradise Lounge. 

He was lucky, really.

Elliott had lost family, yes, but -- 

He had gained a new one along the way.

***

  
  


It had been too long since they’d done this kind of thing.

Ever since his lavatory had been repurposed into some kind of weird black-ops base, none of them had really gathered at the Lounge to just simply kick back and have a fucking _drink_ for the sake of it.

And what a night it had been.

Neither Revenant or Caustic had shown up, which was something of a blessing given their history in the bar, and so they’d all just finally had some time to...

Simply _be._ Together.

They’d had wilder parties, that was for sure. But something about this one stood out.

Be it Ajay and Octavio, who for once, seemed to both be calmly content with one another rather than one of them at the other’s throat. 

Well. ‘Calm’ was a descriptor that didn’t really apply to Octavio, but Ajay really _had_ drank the man under the table, snickering as she wiped the last of the tequila from her mouth with the back of her hand.

“See? I told’ja. Best legs money can buy, but.” She rapped Octavio’s synthetic legs with the toe of her boot, before pushing the practically empty bottle across the bar. “I’ll take home my leftovers, don’cha worry.”

Makoa and Pathfinder had helped her, pulling Octacio’s incapticated form off the floor, and carrying him to a taxi alongside a laughing Ajay. Once she had ascertained he’d been safely deposited in the cab, she had jogged back over to Elliott, pecked his cheek and whispered in his ear:

“This meant more than ya know. Thanks, Ell.”

 _That_ in itself had taken him by surprise, let alone the rest of the evening. He had been shocked when Crypto showed up, even more so when Natalie guided him over by the hand and the duo buried themselves in quiet discussion throughout the entire night.

All the more, when he spotted Natalie’s thumb ghost over Crypto’s knuckle. He had looked almost as surprised as Elliott did, but clasped both her hands in his own.

***

It’s four in the morning, and not many of them left.

Pathfinder is cheerfully studying the various liquors that he keeps stocked, occasionally tossing out the odd suggestion for a cocktail that sounded surprisingly good. Should have figured a tincan would be better at this than him.

The bar has emptied now, leaving just Pathfinder humming contentedly behind the bar, Elliott, and Gibraltar.

The two of them had been sitting across from one another, even before the others had left, trading jokes and escapades that had occured over the course of the Season,

It seems like no time has passed at least until he glances at his watch.

“ _Shit_.” he curses, before flashing Makoa a guilty look. “I -- my -- my mom, uhm. Well. I need -- I _need_ to get back to her.”

He absently traces the rim of his beer bottle with his thumb, trying to feel like not too much of a dickhead,

“S’okay,” Makoa responds. “You pulled off one hell of a night.”

Elliott blinks.

“M-me? Uh, thanks I guess, but it was Path’s idea, I just --”

“Sure, and credit to Path too! But y’know -- I know you wanna spend time with your family now we’re home. Heh. Lookin’ forward to catchin’ up with mine too.”

Makoa’s lift his gaze, allows it to drift across the room thoughtfully. 

“Y’know brother,” he says softly, “this place. This planet. Our planet. It’s become home to a lot more people than just us ‘n Wattson.” 

Elliott tilts his head, curiously.

“Whaddaya mean?”

“S’like..” He pauses, taking a sip of his beer before continuing. “We’re a real family now. Cracks happen, just the same as they do in any family.”

_Those long days that had seemed to stretch on forever, waiting for his brothers to come home. The slow, burning realisation that maybe they would not. The first time his mother forgot his name._

Elliott swallows thickly, taking another drink himself.

“But nothing can’t be put back together, shaped into somethin’ even better.”

Elliott thinks of an old Earth tradition his mother had told him about, a long time ago. When he first clumsily dropped a piece of equipment in the workshop, and she had tried to console him as he spiralled over his own foolishness.

 _Kintsugi_ , it was called. The Japanese artform of repairing broken pottery with precious Earth metals, like gold, and reforging them into something even more beautiful.

“Something stronger,” he murmurs to himself, unaware he was speaking aloud.

But Makoa catches his eye, and looks him at him with an expression that he can only describe as _tender_.

“Somethin’ stronger,” he agrees. “Somethin’ that’s _us_.”

“A home.” 

Usually such a bold statement would leave Elliott feeling like an idiot, but it was different when he was around Makoa for some reason. It even earns him a warm smile from the other man.

“I reckon you’d be pretty good at buildin' one of those.” 

Elliott can feel his cheeks burning, and lets out a little laugh of disbelief.

“Me? Nah. Think that’s more your style.”

Makoa shakes his head, smiling.

“You’re too hard on y’self, y’know that? Well, how ‘bout we do it together then?”

Elliott finds himself grinning.

“I can drink to that.”

“A toast then," Makoa declares, holding up his pint. “To family. And comin’ home to them.”

Elliott clinked his beer against Makoa’s.

“And coming home _with_ them.”

Makoa rewarded him with a grin that set Elliott's cheeks burning in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol, but he finds himself not even caring.

And for the first time in what felt like years, it feels like maybe, just maybe…

Things were going to be alright.

  
  



	6. TRUST

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have changed beyond question for all the Legends in the past year. Trust has been put to the test for all of them, with many of them left having to redefine who they place their faith in.
> 
> For Elliott, a guy whose entire persona was based around a lie, trust didn't exactly come easy. Too many hurts, too many times being left behind. 
> 
> But Gibraltar had changed things. And he feels strangely compelled to put that trust to the test, by letting him in on the man behind Mirage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *falls on floor face down* 
> 
> I did it....this damn thing nearly killed me but I DID IT. Enjoy the final chapter of my wee 31 Days of Apex series! Managed a full week in total which, hey! Better than nothing.
> 
> This fic is sorta intended to be read as a series, so there'll be the odd reference here and there to previous chapters but it's still coherent enough if you just wanna come here to read some Miraltar slowburn in one chapter.
> 
> Thank you SO much [Halo](http://twitter.com/TryAndMoveMe) for proofing me this and cheering me on! Special shout outs to all the lovely folk in the 31 Days Discord too, who have been such a constant support, love you guys! You made the whole 31 Days project possible! <3
> 
> I hope the payoff on this one is satisfying -- kind of rushed it knowing that we've the Rampart trailer tomorrow, and S6 on the doorstep and my lore obsessed self would just go back and rewrite this entire chapter otherwise.
> 
> Also props to Halo for basically inspiring this over a year ago [with this beauty.](https://twitter.com/tryandmoveme/status/1287513371361722368?s=21) ❤️

**(TRUST)**

Once upon a time, Elliott had trusted a little bit too easily, a little too readily.

Too many seats filled around a table, be it at home, be at school, or all the times in between.

Laughter. Curses and elbows dug in into one another’s sides as he and his brothers fought over the last pork chop. Schooldays, where one of his friends had used a plastic tablespoon to launch a ball of potato mash into the back of the head of one of the older kids, one of the guys who always used to pick on Elliott for his stammer. Years later, raising their glasses as they joined in toasting their comrades being sent off to fight at the front line.

_Always a send-off party, never a coming home. The undercurrent that always hung in the air that this might be the last drink they ever shared together._

“More used to the parties coming before deployment, but suppose that’s just family tradition,” _Anita had chuckled back on the drop-ship, but perhaps they had more in common than Elliott had realised._

_He’d just never given it enough thought ‘till now to realise exactly why those kind of traditions existed in families made up of soldiers._

Trust.

It wasn’t that he’d lost faith in any of his friends, least of all his own siblings.

What had gradually ebbed away his ability to trust, like a chisel pitching marble, was the fact that the more you got close to a person, to anyone in this world, was that they always seemed to disappear.

So, yes. As the years went on, Elliott remained his easy, affable, usual self as he tended to the Lounge, fetched a regular’s drink the moment he saw them enter. Laughed and perched on the bar, listening but his eyes glazed over.

Because he’d lost so many people already.

What was the point in letting anyone else in when the same fate only awaited them?

***

Trust a fucking bloodsport to teach him otherwise.

Legends they might be, but that didn’t mean that a day might come when something went horribly wrong. You couldn’t hesitate in the Games, you couldn’t spare a splinter of a second when your finger hovered over the trigger of a gun as to whether you _knew_ the person on the other end of the crosshairs, you just _did_ what you were there to do.

And yet still.

 _We’re a real family now,_ Makoa had told him.

Elliott tries to imagine what he would have said if someone had told him that, that fateful day all that time ago when he’d signed up for the Games, that he’d come to think of the people he would be competing against as ‘family’.

Probably something utterly inappropriate before shrugging off how ridiculous a notion that was.

He’d lost enough family as it was.

And yet...

Elliott is lying back on his bed -- _his_ bed, not the shitty dropship one -- idly fiddling with the trophy they had made in his likeness last Season.

Silly, really. How much Elliott hung onto paraphernalia like this, cherished it so.

But it served as a reminder why he’d wanted to join up in the first place.

Too many hollow expressions on the faces of the people he passed by every day. War was supposed to bring an end to those. Yet he saw the same emptiness reflected back at him in the mirror each day and had wondered what the hell could even be done with it.

 _(Part of the reasons the decoys were so ridiculously showy: it had been in their core programming from the start, ever since his mother and he had perfected how to get them to create perfect hard-light replicas of a person. Elliott had toyed with the specs for his own personal equipment, adjusted their emotion display and behaviour, dialled it up that extra notch. Made sure that they made it look_ natural.

_He was pretty good at putting on a show himself. But it was nice, at least, to watch the decoys make it look like it was real.)_

So when the Games had come, and he’d seen his home rally around Solace’s hero Makoa Gibraltar, seen the way the Lounge transformed from a place where war vets could either go to drown their sorrows or pick a fight -- potentially even both -- but a hotspot for watching the Games, to cheer on their favourite Legend, saw people who had been throwing punches at one another only a few weeks prior, now high-fiving and laughing -- it had seemed like maybe there was a way he could make a difference.

Maybe he couldn’t help himself. But perhaps he could give his home something to celebrate.

Especially the many homes like his own, where they had spent countless hours watching a closed door, praying it would suddenly open but knowing deep in their hearts it never will.

Yet once he’d entered and met the infamous Makoa Gibraltar, he’d been forced to wonder if the population of Solace were so fiercely devoted to the man simply because he hailed from there. Sure, it had something to do with it: between that and the fact the guy worked for SARAS -- hell, just talking about him, Makoa sounded like some kind of fairytale prince or superhero with the amount of fables behind him. But that was exactly it: perhaps the crowd didn’t simply turn out in force because he was a representative of their planet, maybe it really was just the man who’d become a hero through his actions alone.

Knowing Makoa, now, the way that he did?

Their home, their planet, had nothing to do with it.

A person was what made a Legend. Not where they came from.

It was the things they did, the actions they took.

It was the deeds that made a person a _Legend._

He spins the trophy between his hands a final time, before setting it back down on his bedside table and pulling himself into a seated position.

Elliott gnaws his thumbnail, considering his phone. The Season is well and truly over, fuck knew them what awaited them the next. He’s had some time to catch up with his mother; fortunately, she was having a relatively good week. She remembered not just the Games had just taken place, but that he had _won_ , laughing with delight when he’d presented her the trophy. Just the odd slip-up here or there -- had he heard from Roger? What time was the piano teacher coming round?

Was it fair to leave her? Christian was here overnight but --

Fuck it.

He flicks his phone around and taps as innocuous a message as he can to the other man.

_Drinks? On me. Should go without saying but._

_Drinks on me!_

_-E_

He doesn’t have to wait long for a reply.

_Early drinks, heh, brother? Be there in an hour._

_-G.  
_  
When he went to check in on his mom, and make sure she was okay to leave for a few hours, he found her in the workshop; pouring over blueprints excitedly with her carer, Christian. She even pulled him in for a one-armed-hugged, and reminded him to have _fun._

 _Fun,_ he muses, pulling his jacket off the coat hook.

_Here’s to hoping._

***

It’s only once he gets there, and realises -- oh, _God_ \-- the bar was _closed_ , he had completely lost track of when was _when_ in the aftermath of everything.

Elliott hurries to unlock the bar, glancing around the carpark as to ascertain whether Gibraltar’s custom motorbike is anywhere to be seen. And sure, it wasn’t yet, but if he arrived and found the bar unopened --

Elliott slips inside, letting his head fall back against the doors behind him with a heavy sigh.

Trust. Yeah. Trust his own addled mind to confuse Tuesday and Wednesday.

Tuesday. Also known as, the _one night of the week that Paradise Lounge closed._

He curses, trying to hurry the bar into a semblance of normality, using decoys to unstack barstools and put them back in their proper place. He isn’t sure what’s more embarrassing; if it looks to Makoa like he asked them to meet at his own, empty establishment, or if it looks like it was all elaborately staged.

Which it is, really.

But Makoa didn’t need to know that.

So when he hears the _growl_ of a motorbike pulling up outside, Elliott almost chokes on the whiskey he’d been drinking to calm his nerves and bangs his chest with a cough. He tucks the bottle back amongst the others tries to put on his most charming grin as he balances himself with both palms spread on the bar, and just hopes that --

Makoa doesn’t question why no one else is in the Lounge.

Elliott is still holding his nervous grin to the point that it’s beginning to hurt by the time the other man enters, motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm and leather jacket flung over the other shoulder. But when Makoa meets his eyes, the strain leaves Elliott’s face all of a sudden, and he can _feel,_ his face softening, the curve of his mouth relaxing into an earnest smile. Makoa flashes one back at him, and suddenly there’s a burning in his chest that he can’t entirely blame on the whiskey.

Deflect, deflect, as long as you could before you were forced to confront. A mantra that worked just as well in reality as it did in the Games. Thus, he coughs, pushes his fringe out of his eyes and addresses Makoa when he sets his motorcycle helmet on the bar.

“The usual?”

Gibraltar chuckles, tossing his jacket down beside his helmet.

“Sure, brother.”

Elliott busies himself at the draught beer font, pouring a pint of Makoa’s preferred poison, purposely keeping his gaze focused on the task at hand. Maybe it’s simply just politeness, but the other man hadn’t mentioned how there was nowhere else there. Perhaps he just thought it was early days yet.

When he sets the drink down in front of him, Makoa tilts his head in the direction of one of the booths.

“You wanna sit down?”

Well, fuck. There was no hiding the flush rising on his cheeks then. He starts to stammer out some _awful_ excuse about how standing didn’t bother him, and really it was fine and --

Makoa lays a hand over his, squeezes it lightly.

“S’okay, Ell. Anyone else comes in, you’ll see them, yeah? Might as well kick back ‘n have a drink with a friend ‘till they do.”

He lifts his hand, and Elliott hopes to the high heavens his face isn’t visibly red as it feels. But, standing there and gawking like a gormless idiot wasn’t gonna make this any better.

“Of -- of course! You go sit, uh,” he waves his hand vaguely in the air, indicating the _many_ empty booths around the Lounge. “I’ll just get myself a top up -- I mean, a drink, and -- be right with ya!”

By the time he’s turned around and hastily topped up his whiskey, then swung back around, Gibraltar had already seated himself at a nearby booth, his back to the doorway. Elliott still can’t tell if he’s genuinely unaware the bar wasn’t open today, or if he was just trying to save Elliott some face by giving him the pretence of needing to spot customers incoming. All the same, he appreciates it, and makes his way over, sliding into the leather seat across from Makoa.

“So,” Elliott announces, setting his whiskey tumbler on the table.

“So.” Makoa replies, after a sip of beer. His tone is inviting, patient, and gives Elliott the confidence to fumble on through what was perhaps the skill he lacked the most in: honest conversation.

“What -- uhm, I mean, how -- _how_. Was your, uhm, your downtime? Didja...” He drills his fingers off the table, trying to not fixate on his inability to get a coherent sentence out when he was feeling insecure. “...you said you were close with your family, right? See them much at all?”

Makoa lifts his tattooed hand, rubs the side of his neck with it.

“Oh, for sure. My family? _Heh._ Yeah. Lotta rowdy nieces and nephews in the Gibraltar family, I’ll tell you that much. Everyone wants a piece of the Makoa action. Swear some’a those kids gave me damn _bruises_.” He chuckles, fondly. “Must run in our genes or somethin’.” He looks up, considering Elliott. For a moment, it seems like he’s weighing up whether or not to say something.

“What about...you, yeah? Did you get some time to...with your mom?”

He’s watching Elliott carefully, in a way that has that flush creeping back up Elliott’s neck, but it’s clear that his concern is rooted in not making his companion uncomfortable with the subject. That they can back away from it, if that was what Elliott needed.

Which, was of course, the tactic Elliott would usually attempt. Diversion, and then escape.

It hits him suddenly, with a force akin to a bullet crashing into his armour.

That this was Gibraltar, and he _could_ talk to him, without fear of derisiveness, of judgement, or any of his usual anxieties.

“Yeah! We had -- well, she’s doing well, and --”

He tightens his jaw, but forces himself to carry on. It’s Makoa, after all.

“I dunno -- you might not remember? We had that press conference, back during the first Season and…” He licks his lips nervously, grateful for the burn of whiskey that’s gradually settling on his palette. “You and Ajay… They asked me about my family, y’know? And I just...froze.”

He pauses, gnawing his lip self-consciously.

“Yeah,” Makoa responds, softly. “I remember.”

“Right. So…” Elliott sips his whiskey, gulping it a little too quickly and wincing as it scorches its way down his throat. “My -- my -- my family --”

He’s interrupted as a hand reaches across the table. It doesn’t take his own, simply settles beside his own, the one gripping the glass.

“Hey,” Makoa tells him gently. “S’alright. No need to talk about anything, especially if it makes you uncomfortable.”

His expression is so warm, inviting and open. Elliott glances at his hand practically within touching distance of his own, and takes a deep breath.

He’s never talked to anyone about this. He didn’t have anyone left in his life that he _could._

Elliott uncurls the fingers of his free hand: he hadn’t even realised were clenching into a fist.

“”It’s not..that. It’s just I don’t want people to _know,_ know, y’know what I mean?”

His jaw tightens, all too aware how ridiculous he sounds, but still he plunges forward.

“I - I’ve three older brothers, They’re…” He can feel that stubborn lump rising in his throat once again, forces himself to choke it back down. “Uhm. You know. The war? That’s -- that’s stupid, of course you know about the, war, s-s-sorry --”

“Ell,” Makoa interrupts, and Elliott looks up blinking. Huh. That might be the first time he’d ever used that nickname, and not his trademark ‘brother’. “Honestly. S’okay. If you wanna tell me, just take your time. You’re okay.”

_You’re okay._

Such a simple statement shouldn’t take him so aback, but… Elliott’s always been hyper-aware of his embarrassing habits, the stammer, the awkward blabbering to fill silence, the bad jokes falling flat. He’s always fumbled through life feeling like he has something to apologise for, and if he could prop himself up with self-deprecating jokes, use the persona of Mirage as a façade, maybe people wouldn’t be able to tell what a mess he was beneath it all.

And here was someone he respects -- no, more than that, _trusts_ \-- meeting his gaze patiently, allowing Elliott to simply process his feelings, his steady presence tangible from even across the table.

He offers a weak smile, a spectre of the self-assured grin that most people are accustomed to, before sweeping his fringe out of his eyes and taking a long sip of his drink. He sets it back down, jaw set in determination as the heat snakes down his gullet.

He wasn’t going to allow himself to be held back by the fear any longer.

“That’s -- yeah. Thanks. Uhm. Where was I -- oh! The war. Brothers. All three of ‘em, enlisted in the Militia. Think I told ya that before. All soldiers but me.” He gives a wry chuckle in spite of himself. “Used to give me shit for wanting to be more like Mom. My holo-tech? She taught me all of it. Always wanted to be an engineer like her, work on ways to improve Holo-Pilot technology. She’s...the best of the best.”

 _Still is_ , he tells himself, swallowing hard. _We’ll find someone, some doctor,_ some _day. And we’ll get her back to…_

“Anyway. My brothers, yeah? Always gave me crap about not joining the army. Who knew I’d be here now, running ‘round with a gun and shooting people for a living? Even if, you know, it’s not war, I’m still not that bad at it.” He pauses to take another drink, surprised at how comparatively easy the words were flowing now.

Be it the booze, or Makoa’s reassurance, or simply just relief of feeling like he wasn’t going to be _judged_ for his words for once, he isn’t entirely sure.

“Or, you know. So they say.”

Makoa huffs a laugh at that, lowering his head and shaking it. Some stray strands of hair fall loose from tie, over his forehead and he looks up to hold his gaze with Elliott.

“Listen. We all got doubts, Ell.” There it was again -- a _nickname_ , not his usual moniker but something _special_ for Elliott alone -- “but you’re a Legend for a reason. Sure, your mom taught you well but… I seen ya’ working on it, on the ship or ‘round HQ.That stuff? S’all you. You’re sellin’ yourself too short.”

Elliott feels a faint blush creeping up his neck, and spreading over his cheeks.

“That’s…” he pauses, before giving a rueful shake of the head “...probably the first time I’ve ever been told that. ‘Asides from my mom and all that. So...thanks.”

Makoa lifts his glass to him, flashing a grin as he does. Elliott’s not gonna be able to pretend that the flush on his face is the fault of the whiskey for much longer, but all the same, he raises his tumbler and _clinks_ it against the bigger man’s pint glass. They both take a swig, and as Elliott settles his glass back on the table, he feels himself filled with a sudden vigour. He takes a deep, steadying breath and continues.

"So. Uh. Yeah. Well. You know how it went. The War. My brothers. They, uh. They're not back, yet. MIA, they say. The files, anyway. But there's -- there's never been? Any? Proof? What hap-hap - well. _Where_ they are. It's. Uhm. Been a -- a -- a long time now. Hard to sometimes, uh. Well...live with."

He leans back against the booth's cushions and sighs, holding his tumbler with one hand, whilst combing back his mop of fringe that’s fallen over his face once more.

"So that time at the press conference, that’s why I’m grateful. I'm not sure if I'm totally -- ready. For a bunch of strangers, like the media, or...anybody, y’know?. To start asking questions or -- or. Any of it." He starts to chew his lip again, drumming his fingers against the glass. "Kind of stupid of me, huh? Coming into the Games looking for fame and fortune and not antic- antici- uhm. Realising this was bound to happen. I-I-I'm. Not so good at thinking ahead."

"Not stupid," Makoa says softly, "brave."

Elliott's head snaps up at that, feeling a dual mix of confusion and shock. He furrows his brow and then gives a soft snort of disbelief, shaking his head.

"Now _that_ ," he says, pointing the hand still holding his drink in Makoa's direction and gesturing vaguely. "No offence, Chuckles, but that sounds. Well. _That_ doesn't make any sense."

"Makes plenty," Makoa replies, grinning and settling back on his side of the booth, throwing an arm over the back of the couch as he sips his beer. "It's brave entering in the first place, the Games ain't easy. 'Specially, if -- well. Sounds like you and your mom have had it rough."

Elliott swallows at the mention of his mother, but watches Makoa with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.

"Lotta people, something like that happens to them, and, well... Would kind of eat away at them in a way that leads down a dark path. But look at you! You're here and you made it. You’re an Apex Legend. That’s pretty damn brave of you.”

 _Huh._ Well Makoa’s argument didn’t sound _quite_ as absurd as it had before, in fact... He seems momentarily hopeful, until he feels the cold grip of memories squeeze around his heart.

That first time he’d come home after being declared a Legend, eager to tell his mother all about it, how she’d been right to tell him to follow his dreams after all…

And she hadn’t known who he was.

"'Sides,” Makoa continues, “don't think any of us go into this expecting our pasts to get so delved into by the press. Well. 'Cept Path."

Elliott can’t help but bite back a smile at that. Yeah. All of them with their own baggage that weighed them down, the pasts they were keeping concealed; meanwhile, there was that big blue smiling robot that was only looking to find out the truth about his own.

"All the same -- certainly didn't expect them to go digging ‘round in mine, but them's the breaks of being a Legend, I guess. The War took a lot away from all of us. Guess people are just hungry to have something to be excited about again. Learn a lil’ more about the folk they’re rooting for."

He finds himself nodding along to Makoa, trying his best to listen to what the other man was saying rather than spiral off into his own usual fits of self-loathing. Giving the people something to cheer for...hell, that’s the entire reason he’d joined up in the first place, right?

“That, uh. Makes sense, I guess? I-- I -- _shit_ , I mean, thank you!” His face is aflame, he knows, but _still_ Makoa’s expression doesn’t alter, remains fixed in one of patient understanding. “That’s -- that’s kind of you to say. Or to think. At all. I still feel like…”

He goes to take a deep breath and a bolstering sip of his drink, before realising that the glass was empty. _Damnit._

But it’s like Gibraltar reads his mind.

“‘Hey,” he interjects, forcing Elliott to look back up at him. “If this is the kinda conversation that calls for another drink, I ain’t complainin’’.”

He grins, and winks at Elliott, then promptly downs what remains of his beer Elliott finds himself absently watching the muscles of his neck pulse as he swallows, the way his bicep contracts as he tilts the glass back against his lips. He just about catches himself from staring, before slipping out of the booth, and making his way over to the bar before Makoa can lower his glass.

 _Stupid,_ Elliott berates himself, reaching for a clean pint glass. _You asked him here, looking for a friend. Nothing else._

Yet as Gibraltar pushes himself up and away from the bar-table they’d been seated at, wiping away a drop of larger from the corner of his lip, and notices Elliott’s gaze --

The cold beer begins to overflow the pint glass that he had been filling, and he curses, hastily wrenching the tap backwards as he desperately tries to save the head of the beer.

 _Fuck._ Wasn’t the cleanest pint he’d ever poured, not by a country mile, but Makoa is already reaching it as Elliott mutters self-derogatory curses under his breath and turns around to find the whiskey he had been drinking up until now.

His hands snatch the bottle by the neck, lifts it up to quickly scan the label before pulling off the cork stopper, when he hears, softly, from behind him:

“You shouldn't do that, you know.”

He whirls around in confusion to face Makoa, leaning over the bar on folded arms. He’s smiling, but his eyes are...searching.

Elliott blinks, staring back at the other man, clutching the open bottle of whiskey in his hand,

“Wh -- I -- _what?_ ”

Gibraltar laughs warmly, in that typical way that he always does, the rare kind that didn’t leave Elliott feeling like a total idiot.

He meets Elliott’s eyes, and pats the barstool beside him with one hand, whilst the other reaches for his freshly-poured beer. Which -- okay, wow, _sure_ brought them closer together, but...

It’s been a long time since Elliott has trusted anyone; to well and _truly_ have enough faith in another person to open up at all. He had lost so many people already, was scared of losing more, scared of people judging him, scared of not being good enough, scared of...well, a lot of things, actually.

But hadn’t he told himself he wasn’t gonna let himself be held back by fear anymore?

He takes a deep breath, and walks around the counter to sit at Gibraltar’s side.  
He’d brought the whiskey bottle along with his tumbler though. A man could only summon so much bravery without a little help.

“So,” he says, pouring himself a drink from the bottle. “What is it I shouldn’t be doing? Besides the many, obvious things that I do anyway --”

“ _That_ ,” Makoa interjects, pointing a stern finger at him, “beatin’ yourself up all the time. Like you’ve done something wrong, when you’re out here doin’ your best -- just like the rest of us.”

Elliott swallows and takes a long sip of his drink. He’d _like_ to believe that, but…

“I don’t know if that -- that’s -- I mean _thank_ you, I should be thanking you, sorry, that’s -- bad habit, I guess. Or think. I just…”

He grits his jaw, closing his eyes for just a moment, forces the rising panic he can feel back down. When he opens them again, he keeps his eyes trained down at the amber liquid in the glass he’s holding, rather than looking at Makoa.

“I...Well. Sometimes I just feel selfish? For entering? My mom, she -- you know, with my brothers missing and all -- she's all by herself now. Been just the two of us for a while now.” He lifts his drink, swirling it a little so as to watch the way the alcohol creeps up the side of the liquid, then slowly drips down in watery rivulets. “Back when I used to just tend bar here…” He makes a vague sweeping gesture of their surroundings. “I just...saw. What did it for people, yanno? Just seeing folks’ faces light up again…”

He takes another drink, absently running his tongue over his lower lip..

“Got pretty hooked myself, I gotta say. Just sounded...exciting, yanno? I mean, kinda terrifying too, but… The idea of it, the sound of glory and fame ‘n fortune, all that stuff.” He shakes his head wryly, still not looking up. “Hell, you were _there_. Juggling that ‘n SARAS… Didn’t know how you managed it. Still don’t, really.”

He keeps his eyes trained on his drink, but he can feel the bigger man shift, as if he was going to cut in, but if he _does_ , Elliott is gonna lose what little bravery he could muster, and thus he blunders on.

“So...I always wanted to do it myself too. But my mom? She -- that would -- does. Leave her all alone. Since -- yeah. Like I said. W-w-we don't know where they....are. But, mom she was -- _is_ \-- more observant than I thought.”

 _Still is_ , he reminds himself, chasing the thought with a swig of whiskey, _She still is_.

"Anyway. My mom found out. What I was thinking. Dunno how, she's -- well, s’like she can read my mind sometimes, I swear to God. Probably my own idiot fault, babbling about it when we were together in our workshop or whatever, or... Eh, I never do know when to shut up. As you've probably noticed."

He hears Makoa huff jovially into his beer, and Elliott tilts his head towards him. Lets his gaze meet Gibraltar’s for the first time since he’d moved to sit beside him.

"Maybe not. But I like it."

 _Oh_. He’s frozen for just a moment -- that gentle smile, the way he tilted his body towards Elliott, open and free, and -- was Elliott mistaken, or was that a faint tinge of a blush on Makoa’s cheeks _too?_

He knows his own face is aflare, and tries to hide it by passing his hand over his jaw, scrubbing at his beard.

If this...tension, between them, is _not_ simply a figment over his stupidly overly hopeful imagination -- which it probably _was_ \-- it felt like Makoa needed to hear the truth. Which was stupid, really. What was he expecting? A _relationship?_

Like something like _that_ was remotely possible.

“Uhm…thanks? No -- _thanks_. I, uhm, always figure it’s kinda...annoying, yanno? Been told I’ve a big mouth ‘n all. Which is _true_ , but anyway…I -- I -- my mom. She’s an engineer, so I sorta... Always wanted to follow in her footsteps. Thought it might make a difference, the stuff she did. Help folk...well, not get killed, I guess."

Ellliott idly circles the rim of his whiskey tumbler with the pad of his thumb, trying to not get too lost in the recollections of his past when things were just...better.

“The tech I use? It was… _is_ , the custom stuff we've been working on the last few years. Even when -- _anyway_. Just a personal project, we hadn't shared, prototypes and the like. Anyhoo, one day she just...gave it to me. Told me to ‘follow your dream’, cheesy as that sounds.”

It’s a memory that’s far too easy to slip into. He tries to recall Gibraltar’s definition of being brave, and the rationale behind it

He wishes with all his heart, that he had the bravery to wear his heart on his sleeve like that.

His _truth_. Again, with the corniness but hell, he wasn’t exactly known for his eloquence when it came to words anyway.

“And I did! I guess. Achieved my dream, but...”

There it was again, that urgent tug from somewhere behind his ribcage, making breathing more difficult, making it hard to think, to talk, clouding his mind with thoughts of how he’d be judged, what Makoa might think, how he was going to get everything _wrong._

A large hand settles over his, the one that isn’t clutching his drink, and he stares at it in momentary wonder. Gibraltar squeezes his hand, and Elliott slowly looks up, meets Makoa’s gentle, kind eyes, so full of compassion and understanding and above all things, _belief._

Belief that Elliott could do this.

It’s a little overwhelming, in all honesty. It’s certainly not an expression he’s familiar with, it’s _certainly_ not a level of patience for his bullshit that he’d ever encountered other than his own mother, and his brother, Roger. But, it’s enough. Enough support that he thinks that for once, he might actually be able to be _honest._

“My -- my mom.” He hesitates, taking the opportunity to sip his drink. He’s gonna need to top himself up from the bottle again soon at this rate. “She...well. She -- she got. Sick.”

Makoa tightens his hold on his hand again, reassuringly. Elliott tries to latch onto that warmth, use it to anchor his anxieties, his fears. It’s surprisingly effective.

“She...started forgetting things. I shoulda seen it before I went into the Games but -- I -- I was just stupid. So -- so -- _stupid._ Coulda seen it coming, but I was so focused on the _Games_. She got clumsy ‘round the workshop, yanno -- that’s -- that’s not _like_ her, Started...forgettin’ the odd thing or there but I was just --”

He clenches his jaw, and the hand that Makoa is holding curls into a fist, despite the other man’s grip. He’s never talked about this. Never thought he would. Another hurt he’d hoped he would be able to outrun.

“I...just had this idea in my head, yanno, even before she gave me her blessing that maybe I stood a chance at making it into the Games. Spent all my time at the shooting range and working on the holo-tech, when I wasn’t at the bar, I just...I wasn’t there for _her_. And I shoulda been. Then I might have...might have _seen_. What was wrong.”

He shuts his eyes, inhales deeply. The only thing that keeps him going at a forward momentum is the presence of Makoa’s hand, holding him tight, reassuringly, keeping him present, keeping him rooted.

He opens his eyes.

“Dementia, they say. Centuries -- probably more -- tryna’ find a cure, but still nothing yet.” He tries to laugh, but it comes out more like a bitter noise. “Better things to do, right? The war and all that. Not saying that it wasn’t worth it but -”

Elliott slumps back in his seat. Makoa is still holding his hand, more cautiously now, as if he’s conscious Elliott might need his space.

Elliott doesn’t release his grasp.

The last thing he needs right now, is to be alone.

“It’s gotten..worse. Some days, it’s like nothing is wrong, but other days...she doesn’t know who I am anymore.” He fidgets with his drink, pausing to take another sup of liquid courage . “So...I left her all alone. And she got sick. Sicker, I guess, I just, I didn’t -- I _wish_ I had known. She -- she -- _forgot_. Not just the little things anymore, she --”

His hands must be shaking, because his free hand trembles around his glass.

“-- she _forgets_. Not just me, but _all_ of us. Not -- not all the time, but she -- she doesn’t know who I am sometimes.”

He takes another long drink, inhaling as he does and relishing the way the scent of the whiskey sends a welcome burning sensation down the back of his throat.

“That -- that first day, I became a Legend, d’ ya remember? I -- I was just so _excited_ to tell her, presumed like -- like the idiot I am -- that she woulda seen. And --”

His glass is nearing dangerously empty again, and so he reaches for the bottle in order to top himself up. He pours one out, takes some solace in the very presence of the drink being nearby before continuing.

“She...she didn’t know who I was. I failed her.”

His shoulders slump, deflating in on himself. Just about the only thing keeping him rooted to the here and now was Gibraltar’s gentle grip around his hand.

There’s a beat, before Makoa speaks, his voice low, close.

“Don’t know your mom -- sure have heard of her though, everyone knows she’s one of the most talented engineers in the galaxy. And I’ve heard the way ya talk about her. But,” he leans in, closer. “I know _you._ ”

Elliott lifts his head, and is struck by just how...fond and earnest Makoa looks in that moment. Looking at _him_.

“You’re a good person, Ell. Great, actually. You’re kind, and caring, and _dedicated_. No way you failed your mom. S’easy to feel responsible for the choices other people make, but at the end of the day, it's still their choice. Your mom chose to give you that gear, she _wanted_ you to follow your dream. You’re making her proud every day, s’just some days she gets confused. But that ain’t your fault, it’s the illness.”

_You always make me proud, Elli._

How many times had she said that over the years? As far back as he could remember, when she read his school report cards, the first time he’d successfully replicated one of her designs in the workshop, all the tiny, little instances when Elliott’s insecurity got the better of him, and she was there to wrap him in her arms and whisper those five little words.

Could Makoa be right? Was it not selfish of him, to not dedicate what time he had with _her_ , taking over Christian’s role as carer, surely that was the right thing to do?

And -- wait, what had all that been about him being _kind?_

He can feel that accursed flush creeping up his neck again, especially with the way Makoa is smiling warmly at him. He swallows thickly, his throat suddenly feeling dry and oh god, there were those weird butterflies fluttering around his chest again.

“I…”

Makoa’s thumb brushes over the knuckles of the hand he was holding and Elliott feels a breath escape his lips. This was...so it hadn’t been _entirely_ his own imagination?

“Ell…” Makoa murmurs, his voice low, curious and considered. “S’this...okay?”

It strikes Elliott that his instinct would usually be to run, never get too close, never reveal too much, certainly not with anyone you have any intent of seeing ever again. And Gibraltar was a _work_ colleague, except…

He’d become much more than that. He’d become a friend.

He’d become someone Elliott trusted completely.

Elliott’s heart feels like it’s at danger of hammering its way out of his chest, but all the same, he sets his drink on the counter, and turns in the bar stool so he’s properly facing Makoa head on. It’s...exciting and terrifying all at once, and Elliott doesn’t even entirely sure what he’s doing, but finds himself reaching out, all the same, lightly touching Makoa’s cheek. Gibraltar doesn’t pull away -- if anything, he thinks he can feel him leaning into Elliott’s touch -- which emboldens him further, enough so as to allow his slim fingers to graze over the smooth skin, drifting down so as to trace the strong line of his jaw. His eyes follow the path that his fingers trace, entranced by the sheer awe that not only was he doing this, but that Makoa was _allowing_ him to.

He follows the angular cut of his friend’s jaw, travels down the thick tendons of his neck, pausing for a moment over his pulse as he realises Gibraltar’s breath has quickened. Which is ironic, really, because usually it would be _Elliott_ in this position, but for some reason, he feels strangely...calm. It would be easy to blame the alcohol, but in reality, there was just something about this past year with Gibraltar, the things they’d shared, the events they’d lived through, something about _tonight_ and being able to open up fully and to have him simply...remind him that the way his brain liked to warp things to fit his own negative perception of himself didn’t mean those things were necessarily _true._

Feeling bolder still, he slips his hand around the side of Makoa’s neck, cupping it ever-so-lightly whilst his thumb drifts up, over his chin and gently lands on the other man’s lower lip. He can _feel_ Makoa suck in a sharp intake of air at that, as well as feel the sinew beneath the skin of his neck grow taut.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Elliott raises his head and locks his gaze with Makoa’s, his thumb still resting against GIbraltar’s mouth, and the look on the other man’s face crushes all his fears that he was somehow getting all of this wrong into dust.

Because Makoa was meeting his eyes with a look of...what mirrored on _reverence_ , the way he looks just so struck with a mixture of relief, and hope, and the way the corners of his mouth were beginning to curl up into a bashful smile.

It’s like something falls into place, all at once. Like for just one moment, things make sense. That there is a _certainty_. After decades of fumbling for what was the right thing to, suddenly in this one, small, instance, there is perfect clarity.

Elliott clasps the back of Makoa’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss.

Makoa gives the briefest of starts, before wrapping one arm around Elliott’s waist and tangling the other in his hair, pulling him that bit closer. It’s not the ideal angle, what with the two of them seated in bar stools facing one another but hell, it works. Because for the first time in what seems like years, Elliott can allow himself to exist in the present, in the _now_. He can feel greedy in his happiness and allow himself to be vulnerable without fear of being judged, because it’s _Gibraltar_.

And at the end of the day, Gibraltar protected people. He cared. He really, truly cared.

And if he was here kissing Elliott, then...he must have meant all the things that he’d said.

It’s just a kiss, one long, lingering kiss,that lasts almost a full minute before Elliott pulls away, a little reluctantly and rests his forehead against Makoa’s, breathing shakily. Makoa lays a large, steadying hand on his back, and absently combs his fingers through Elliott’s hair.

It’s a sense of peace Elliott can’t remember having had in a long, long time. It’s hard to break apart from, but he forces himself to do so all the same. It had been Gibraltar who had advised him to be brave, after all. He’s been terrified about so many things over the course of his thirty years, and even though he trusts the other man completely, this is a whole new kind of terror.

Because what if he took this one, good thing, and fucked it up completely?

“I just... “ Elliot’s eyes squeeze shut, allowing his fingers to tangle themselves in Makoa’s hair. “I -- I’m -- not good at this. Do you -- uh.” His throat feels like it’s closing over once again. “I mean, d’ya… I _mean_ like no pressure but, I just…”

Makoa interrupts him again, this time slowly trailing his knuckles up the length of his spine. The sensation alone has Elliott shuddering.

“S’okay to be scared. Ell.” Gibraltar murmurs, tenderly. “Anything that’s new…that always scares us. S’just a matter of if you’re open to that or not. And if not, that’s okay too, we can just --”

Elliott catches his bicep, the one that was cradling his neck.

“I - I -- no, I’m -- I think? No. I am. I’m...scared. But if we, uh, do this, what if I -- what if I mess it all up?”

The other man lays a hand against his cheek, and Elliott’s eyelashes flutter, leaning into his touch.

“Like I told you. I _know_ you. I know we can make this work, s’long as you want it to work.”

Elliott nods insistently.

“I do! I really do, I swear Makoa, I just --”

Gibraltar cuts him off with a quick kiss and a smile.

“Then it’s gonna work.”

Elliott lays his hand over Makoa’s, the one still cupping his cheek, well aware he’s grinning like a fool, but finding himself unable to care for once.

“Then it’s gonna work,” he repeats eagerly.

The grin he receives in return sets Elliott’s heart feeling ripe to burst. He can’t find the words to encapsulate quite what he’s feeling, and thus does the only other thing he can think of.

He pushes himself off the bar stool, looping his arms around Makoa’s neck and this time when their mouths meet, his lips part, letting himself melt into the other man’s grasp.

And doesn’t stop kissing him until his neuroses finally accept that everything was going to be okay.

(And even then, perhaps a little longer.)

***

Months pass, and as always, Makoa had turned out to be right. Things _worked_. Elliott hadn’t managed to spectacularly tank their relationship right from the get-go (and hoo, boy, didn’t that still cause the good kind of shivers down his spine when he thought about it: he, Elliott Witt, was in a _relationship_ ), and as it turned out, wasn’t doing that bad a job at being a boyfriend. Unlike previous attempts at being someone’s partner, he didn’t feel he had to hide his insecurities from the other person which turned out to make all the difference. He could be _himself_ , and not just be plagued with doubts the entire time.

Given their strange celebrity status, they were trying to keep it under wraps as they both figured things out. They hadn’t been able to keep it from their fellow Legends, really: most had already guessed, even before they’d been told. Ajay had chuckled and scolded them that it was about damn _time_ , whilst Pathfinder flew into a burst of delight, pulling them both in for a crushing hug simultaneously. Even Wraith had surprised him by giving him a smile -- not one of her usual trademark smirks, but a real and genuine _smile_ \-- and told him they seemed good together.

Maybe Makoa had been right. They really _had_ built a family for themselves.

It’s the start of a new Season, which means of course the inevitable press conferences. Their first since they had begun their relationship, and it’s got Elliott’s gut fluttering with nerves. Makoa hadn’t even broached the subject about raising it: they were taking it slow whilst Elliott found his footing after all. It wasn’t like he was _embarrassed_ \-- far from it, he was _proud_. But there remained that strange, niggling voice at the back of his head that kept trying to convince him he was gonna screw the whole damn thing up somehow.

After they’d dealt with the inevitable slew of questions about their hopes for this Season, what they’d done to prepare for it, all the inquiries that had been ‘approved’ by the Syndicate prior to the conference as safe to answer, came the usual fluff pieces. Elliott could practically feel Angela Fazia eyeing him, even through the glare of the photographers’ flash firing nonstop.  
“I’ve a question for Mirage,” she calls, and he could feel Makoa subconsciously shift closer to him. “Again, we get a great deal of questions regarding the personal lives of the Legends. By far the one we get the most from your fanbase, is, well -- do you have anyone special in your life at present?”

Usually Elliott made some deflecting remark about simply waiting for the right person to waltz their way into his life at some stage, throw a wink to the video cameras, a promise to the viewers back home.

“Yes, actually.”

The words come fumbling from his mouth before he can even catch himself. He can feel every head in the room snap in his direction, the other Legends and Gibraltar included.

Fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound.

He leans over and kisses Makoa square on the lips.

Makoa stares back at him in stunned surprise, and there’s a tangible moment of silence in the room as everyone catches their breath -- Elliott included.

And then it erupts into chaos, as the crowd goes wild.

He can hear the scrape of chairs as journalists stand up, the sea of voices all turning into one collective background noise, camera bulbs firing everywhere. He can dimly hear Octavio whoop and cheer, Natalie giggle whilst Anita slaps the table as she doubles over laughing.

He doesn’t look away. All he can see in that moment is Makoa staring back at him, face slowly splitting into a grin as the rest of the world just fades away.

For too long, he’s been hung up on memories. The people he’s lost, the people who may never come back for whom he only now has memories to cling to. His mother’s memory slipping away, the fear there will come a day when she no longer remembers him. The voice at the back of his head that wonders if one day, will he, too, forget the people he cares about. Will the sound of laughter filling his home disappear too, will he no longer remember things like Roger's laugh, Elon's singing, Ricky teaching how to properly hold a Wingman.

That fear of losing the past making the prospect of a future all the more terrifying.

But the warmth and care he sees in Makoa’s eyes when he looks at Elliott, and Elliott alone, the distant sound of Ajay unable to keep herself from sniggering along as she tried to restrain Octavio from whipping out his selfie stick, even Loba chuckling as she makes some quip about the boys having found some treasure of their own, it dawns on him:

The future did not need to be one ruled by fear of what’s coming next.

All he had to do was allow himself a little bit of trust in himself that what came next could be good.

Makoa knits their fingers together and gives his hand a squeeze.

 _Will be good_ , he tells himself, meeting Makoa’s grin with one of his own.

 _Will_ be good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who stuck with this monstrosity throughout, and the kind feedback received! Comments very much appreciated! <3


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